


I'll be your liqour

by Uial



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abortion, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Penny Dreadful Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blasphemy, Blood and Violence, Derogatory Language, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, No penetrative sex, Underage Masturbation, but all other kinds of sex, killing and eating of animals, slight crack in the most unfitting moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uial/pseuds/Uial
Summary: This is a Penny Dreadful Au of Supernatural.Sam is Miss Ives. Dean is a witch. Crowley is sass personified and Lucifer is an ass.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural and Penny Dreadful don't belong to me, and I don't make any money from this.
> 
> You don't have to have seen Penny Dreadful to understand this, hopefully. But if you have watched episode five of season one and episode two of season three, you will be familiar with the basic outline of the story. I still added new things, though, so it won't be boring.
> 
> Regarding the warnings: The Non-Con happens to Sam, but it doesn't happen between him and Dean. Regardless, if you are sensitive to issues of consent, this might not be the fic for you. Most of the sex in here is not explicitly consensual. The underage warning is for masturbation only.
> 
> If you want to know why I wrote this thing and other information tidbits, see the end notes.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

1891

Sam sought after people like himself. People who were, in some way or another, special. He wanted to find what he was, what he could do, and how to use his power to once and for all find a way to close himself off from Lucifer.

His abilities only seemed to have grown during his short liaison with the devil. He caught glimpses of time, seeing people on the street and the next moment he knew that they wanted to propose or that they had played with a wooden duck when they were small.

Most of the visions were useless since he couldn't find out when the vision he had seen took place. It was rather rare that he could get a glance at a newspaper or a calendar during the vision. Sometimes Sam could at least localize the vision somewhere in the span of a few years when the people didn't look any older or younger than they were today. Still, most things he saw could have already happened or they could happen ten years in the future, there was no way to know.

A rare occurrence were visions that were so clear and detailed that he would get a deep sense of urgency from them and in that case, the visions often became true in the next few days. He slept at work sometimes, his head resting on the flour-dusted wooden table in the back room. Sleep was elusive, plagued by nightmares and visions and no way to differentiate between the two. One time he woke from such a sleep with a very clear vision of the old lady that came to the bakery every morning, she had been grasping a picture of an equally old man to her chest.

_She clutches the frame hard enough to hear the wood creak. The tears are blinding her, but the dark surrounds her completely, whether she sees it or not. A sharp pain stabs her chest and she can’t determine if her grief is the cause or if this is her heart acting up again. She hopes for the latter, and can't keep her frail body from shaking any longer. The gasping breaths feel like acid in her throat. Why did he leave? He had promised to stay forever._

The old lady never came back to the bakery.

-oo-

Sometimes he saw a person dying and the one time he managed to locate the event in time, he tried to stop it from happening. It was like drifting in a stream and forcing himself to not follow the way of its riverbed. In the end, the river would always find a way to the sea. You could build a dam, but the water would accumulate behind it and at some point, it would flow over the barrier to follow it's old path.

_The gunshots are loud in the cramped back alley. The sound ricochets between the boxes storing perishables for the small inn and the red brick walls. In the darkness, both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously. He dies first, labored breaths turning to gasps and then silence. His opponent clings to life with the desperate anger of a wronged man, but he too soon stills._

Sam knew that street, it was right on his way to work. And the poster for the magic show in the old brewery was still there. So the time frame had to be something like a week. He waited there for three consecutive evenings and succeed to stop the confrontation before it escalated. Of course, he patted his own back and went home in the positive knowledge that he had done a good thing.

His high spirits evaporated as he read the paper the next morning. One of the men he'd saved had been killed that same night by a stray bullet. Nobody could even explain where it had come from. The article called it mysterious and hinted that witchcraft had probably been involved.

The other man was gunned down the following morning. He had strangled a young girl and was killed by a police officer in the resulting stand off, as one of his contacts told Sam.

He did not try to alter the future again after that.

\--oo--

Over a few months, Sam had built a good network, mostly homeless people, prostitutes and street urchins, all in need of something, even if it was a little as a few shillings or a day old bread from the bakery for any information they brought to him. They contacted him whenever they heard of something unnatural happening.

Often times these rumors turned out to be nothing. A card player who was just unusually talented or good at cheating. A gypsy woman who was very perceptive and used that to convince people her visions of the future were as accurate as her guesses about the present. A thief who was good at sniffing out easy targets.

Sometimes, though, he found the real deal. And when Katie came to him with an address in the good part of town and an invitation to a séance, he put on the only good suit he hadn't pawned for rent money yet and hired a carriage. He would owe her big time for this, and his future looked darker the more he thought about it, but the lead was more important.

Sam dove back into the shark tank of high society like a goldfish that had lived its life in a bowl. His hair was a little too long, but he passed it off as a rich boy's quirk easily. His suit wasn't tailored to the style of the season, but it still met the standards of his company, which, to be honest, weren’t too high. Meetings like these were for bored high society Ladies and thrill seeking new-rich gents. He had missed the beautiful clothes and polite conversation, the bright golden chandeliers and backstabbing.

When he entered the room in which the meeting would take place, he first noticed the big, round oak wood table. Around it stood six chairs, all comfortably padded with a gaudy red and green pattern. The paintings on the walls, all of them in golden plated frames, told him quite a bit about the taste of his host, namely that it was appalling. Naked women and men in all imaginable and unimaginable poses, often mixed with animal hybrids, pictured amidst lush forests and lounging on white beaches. Reptile tails, bird wings, and goat hooves did nothing for him, thankfully, so he was left only with the thought of how his adoptive parents would have disowned him immediately if he had brought such a travesty into their home. Nonetheless, it was a welcome change from the mold stains in his room.

The medium looked like any woman did these days, hair pinned up, too much rouge and definitely too much jewelry. The collar of her blue satin dress was too low to still be modest, but her laugh was infectious, as she conversed with a man Sam didn't know. In fact, the only person known to him was Doctor Hamish, a talented musician, and forward thinker. They had met on a ball Sam's parents had held when he was ten. He'd been fascinated by the beautiful violin piece the doctor had played there to exemplify a musical theory that had been to complex for him to even comprehend. Later that evening a few chosen guests had been invited to the Salon, and it was there that they had talked briefly.

The blue-eyed man didn't seem to remember Sam because took his place at the table without a greeting. Sam followed. A few minutes later everyone was seated and silence fell.

“Welcome to my home, I am Madame Lefere.” The medium's voice wasn't annoying exactly, but it was slightly too high to be pleasant. The only thing Sam had seen in relation to her was that she would chip her fingernail at some point. “We are here to take a glimpse through the veil.” The candle in the middle of the table flickered ominously and Sam suppressed a sigh. In the last few months, he had heard a dozen variations of this exact same speech. “We shall contact the great beyond to see which ghosts yet remain here with us.”

A woman with curly red hair to Sam's right gasped in shock. Madame Lefere took the hands of the guests sitting next to her and gestured for the others to do the same. “I plead with you to suspend your doubt, spirits do not take kindly to disbelievers.” Sam rolled his eyes. Supernatural beings did whatever they wanted whether you believed in them or not. Priests could end up possessed and scientists haunted, Lucifer called to them all.

Suddenly, all the lights in the room went out. Only the candle in the middle of the table provided weak illumination. Sam glanced around and everyone seemed scared now. Madame Lefere groaned and collapsed, her body only remaining seated because her neighbors held her up.

Sam began to whisper the Rituale Romanum under his breath. The guests screamed as the medium jerked up as though controlled by invisible strings. She hung suspended in the air, her arms outstretched and head tilted back. When she spoke the words weren't her's and she sounded like her voice had just crawled out of the depths of hell.

“Dear boy, it's been so long.”

This could be any of the thousands of demons that clamored in the pit, but Sam knew in his heart that it was Lucifer speaking to him. He had hoped he wouldn't have to hear that voice again in his lifetime, but then again he had never been that lucky. Sam didn't answer and focused on reciting the Latin verses correctly. “Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” Finishing the words of the exorcism he looked up.

Madame Lefere had lifted her head and stared back at him with pitch black eyes. ”We are connected on the most intimate level, Sam. You can't drive me out any more than you could drive your own soul out.”

He swallowed and contemplated running for all of five seconds. The people here had nothing to do with him, but they would probably pay the price for his oversight. Keeping his voice level was a struggle, even more so than looking into the empty black pits before him. “You said that I'd have to consent. I didn't consent.”

The chuckle that came out of the medium's mouth was chilling. “Thus I need the mouthpiece. I'm not technically there with you. We're really just conversing over some distance. Telephones, there’s something to look forwards to.”

Madam Lefere's body sank back down. She molded herself to the chair, crossing her ankles and twisting her arms up and backward around the backrest. At least she appeared human again, even if her pose was completely inappropriate for polite society. The black eyes, however, destroyed the illusion. “I know what you are searching for.” Her lips formed the words carefully, as though each one was important. “And since we are friends, I'm here to help you.”

Sam asserted that he didn't want any help, especially not from Lucifer and that he would rather drown himself in the sewers than listening to anything the demon had to say, but his protests were gracefully ignored.

“I know that you are disinclined to believe me, but you have been here for months and you found nothing. I'm getting bored here, there’s only so many demons to disintegrate, you know? Look for the Soul's Prophecy, Sam. And come to me I when you have found him.”

The medium collapsed and sank to the floor, the other guests jumping up to help her. Curious enough, no one remembered what had happened in the last half hour. Sam slipped back into the cold night air unnoticed in the confusion.

He was determined to ignore the hint Lucifer had given him. After all, if it came from the devil it couldn't be good advice anyway.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have split the fist chapter because it seems too long. I don't even know. Anyway, the chapters will be a bit shorter now, but I will post twice a week to make up for it, with the next chapter coming tomorrow.

As the months slipped by and fall turned to winter, Sam was hard pressed to leave his humble room and find an even cheaper abode, so he would have enough money left for food. None of the hints turned out to be anything of substance. He found a few witches and seers, but none of them wanted anything to do with him. When he mentioned the devil their expressions turned fearful, they recited exorcisms at him, made the sign of the cross and aggressively drove him off.

Sam found the Soul's prophecy in an obscure volume titled “Myths and Truths of Clairvoyants” that had been published the same year he had been born. It was written by a man named Ferdinand Lyle, a professor of Egyptology with a wealth of knowledge in dead languages and obscure rituals. Apparently, he had traveled the land far and wide in search of clairvoyants and had written down whatever they told him. As a result, the book was an odd mixture of recipes, prophecies, rituals, behavioral analysis, and superstition.

Lyle warned at the beginning or the chapter that such divination was often comprehensible only to the person that was subject to said prophesy. The process of the prophecy itself was described in vivid detail. How the witches eyes rolled back into her head and how her voice echoed through the room, not even recognizable as human anymore.

“The young soul born and born again, wandering endlessly.

to know him is to live, to love him is to die.

One-half a boy,

one-half a king,

one-half of a whole.

Destined to live and jet cursed to die,

find your match

and watch the world burn.

 

The old soul carrying a thousand lives, wandering endlessly,

to know him is to die, to love him is to live.

One-half a demon,

one-half a man,

one-half of a whole.

Destined to die and jet cursed to live,

find your match

and watch the world burn.”

After that, the clairvoyant blacked out and waking a few hours later, remembered nothing of the happenings.

Sam had no idea why Lucifer would want him to read this. The verses told him nothing, they didn't resonate with him and he couldn't make sense of them. He assumed that he was one of these souls and that he should go and search for the other one, but again, he wasn't to keen on doing anything the Devil told him to do.

_ October 3, 1873 _

_Sam had been cursed his whole life. From the moment of his birth, he had felt the pull, a temptation to give in. He didn't remember his real mother, but Mrs. Wesson had always told him that it was the call of the devil, to abandon morality and commit sins of the flesh. She said that everyone felt this way and that it was his responsibility to resist, in order to save his immortal soul._

_And then he began to touch himself when he was seven. Well, honestly he had begun earlier than that, driven by curiosity and the enticing flutter deep in him. But he had his first conscious orgasm when he was seven, muscles clenching and clear fluid dripping from his prick onto his friends, Jess', comforter. It didn't have anything to do with Jess herself, with her slender figure, her pale skin or blond, wavy hair. It was just that he was more often at her place than his own, and whenever she had piano lessons he would have to wait for her, and he had to do something to alleviate his boredom._

_Naturally, that was the moment he expected his life to change, expected a terrifying creature with horns and a tail to pop into existence and drag him down to hell. Needless to say, nothing happened. But the pull was still there. It was ever present. And he realized that maybe he would have to do something worse to be truly lost to god._

\--oo--

The cold months eroded his determination. Each week only brought more snow and dead ends. His funds dwindled, the days on which he had more to eat then the dry leftover bread from the bakery became rare. He had to choose to either pay his informants or his rent. Most times the former won out.

In January he went for an interview with Lyle. Sam claimed to be a reporter working for a small newspaper that wrote about all things supernatural, Lyle ate the story up like a cupcake.

He wanted to believe Sam was there out of admiration for his work, he seemed desperate for some recognition. Also, he seemed to prefer the recognition to come in the shape of a young, slightly shaggy looking guy with too long hair and a suit that had definitely seen better days.

In fact the first thing Sam noticed about him was that Ferdinand Lyle was flamboyantly gay. The second thing was that his hair was curled and snow-white with orange tips, his beard had the same particular color scheme, parted in the middle and combed outwards. It was quite possibly the strangest hairstyle Sam had ever seen. The checkered red suit Lyle wore clashed with his olive green and white striped shirt and the golden tie to a degree that it was nearly painful.

“So, you are the young mind that wanted to take advantage of my expertise. It's so wonderful to see the new generation still values knowledge even if it is in a field as controversial as ours. ” Lyle rolled his r's in a weird way and spoke very nasally, all in all, it reminded Sam weirdly of a fake German accent.

The younger man coughed to hide that he had no idea what to say to that exactly. He hadn't thought as far as to think of an actual excuse to why he wanted to know these things. Sam settled on a mumbled “yes” and followed Lyle to sit in front of the man's large and messy desk. The whole office seemed rather chaotic, there were cages with colorful birds and glass boxes with all sorts of insects in them. Fortunately, Lyle didn't seem bothered by monosyllabic answers. He told Sam a whole lot about carrion beetles, which was, granted, very fascinating, but also not really the reason why Sam was there.

“The beetles are used when we want to clean the bones of any remaining flesh. They are quite good at eating all the rotten fibers without damaging the skeleton in the process. This is a wonderful option to ...” At one point Sam just took heart and interrupted Lyle in the middle of his sentence. “Actually I'm here about the Soul's Prophecy, the one in your book.”

Lyle's watery blue eyes bore into him. “Right, yes, but why would you want to study such ancient ramblings?”

“I think that the prophecy is about me.“ Sam went with the truth, hands sweating through the cotton of his trousers, where they lay on his thighs.

“Many believe that they are destined for great things, but let me tell you, Mr. Wesson, we are all just ordinary people, here.” The older man's inquisitive gaze turned pitying. “I sometimes wish that I hadn't written these books. They made me rich, yes, but I can't tell you how many people come here with the certainty that the Soul's prophecy is about them. Even I believed myself to be the subject of such an augury for a time.” Lyle's eyes found an old photograph and remained there for a time.

_Leaves fall to the ground next to him. He's young maybe twenty years old, hair not yet white, stands face to face with a taller man. His father looks like him, they have the same nose, the same heavy tear sacks, but where he himself has a happy and carefree disposition, the older is prone to outbursts of violence and bad temper._

_He senses confrontation before it happens, they stand too close. The man grabs the youth's arm. It hurts, he flinches away but the grip is too strong.“You have wasted enough time with that mystic nonsense.” His words pain Lyle more than the bruise he presses into his arm. “I paid for your education so you could get an actual job. And what do you do?” The older man's voice is steadily rising in pitch, climaxing when he hits his son in the face. It's not a real punch, more a slap. Something that one would do to a hysteric woman to calm her down._

“ _You study languages and cultures and everything that strikes your fancy and you haven't one certificate to show for three years.” He is close to tears, a tremor wrecks his lips and his father snarls: “You are a failure to this family.” He finally let's go of Lyle's arm and walks away._

_Lyle allows himself to break down only when the older man is out of eyeshot._

One of the birds screeched loudly and fluttered it's turquoise and yellow wings, snapping the man out of his daydream and Sam out of the vision. Lyle got up, rounded the desk and stopped at the younger man's side. “A prophecy is something for heroes, Mr. Wesson, something for people who have powers strong enough to change the course of history.” He took Sam's hand and Sam was flooded by the other man's perfume. It was a good scent, flowery and yet musky, unconventional and therefore fitting, but Lyle applied a bit too much of it.

“Who is the man in the Photograph you looked at earlier? Your father, right?” The other man drew back but Sam continued on, not expecting a response. “He didn’t really approve of your career, did he?”

Lyle practically fled back behind the desk. “ How do you know that? He has been dead for thirty years. Have you been following me?” The nervous tremor in his tone intensified his accent.

“I know things.” Sam smiled knowingly, trying to look mysterious. He hoped that it was enough to sway the other man because he didn't have more. It was rare enough that he actually got visions when he needed them, even rarer still that he saw something of actual use to him. Lyle folded his arms defensively and Sam's heart sank.

A pleasant sound dissolved the tension in the room. The turquoise bird tweeted a few sweet notes, and Lyle smiled. “Mr. Wesson, I am shocked, but also charmed. You could have just told me that you had...” The older man leaned over the towards Sam and whispered ”special abilities” like he expected people to burn Sam at the stake if somebody found out.

The truth was that in the big cities, nobody cared about witchcraft anymore. Superstitious citizens were common and sometimes the matter even came to trial, but these trials were shushed and ended with short prison sentences and fines rather than public execution. Fortune telling was an acceptable entertainment for the high society now.

It was different in small villages and on the countryside. Stoning, burning, drowning and hanging of alleged witches was, though illegal, still practiced among the ignorant.

Sam shrugged. “I'd rather not advocate the fact. But I need to know who foretold this particular prophecy.”

“Very well,” Lyle blinked slowly, “if you are certain.” The man pulled open different drawers obviously in search of something. His protruding stomach turned out to be a complication in that regard, and Sam had time to look around. He saw large, mahogany colored cockroaches sitting on a human skull and assumed those to be the aforementioned carrion beetles. There also were papers with signs and runes on nearly every surface, even the couch was covered in them.

Lyle cleared his throat and Sam focused his attention on his counterpart once more. “I have here the transcript of the whole conversation. There we have it, 2nd of May, 1864, The cutwife of Ballentree Moor.” Sam flinched. It wasn't only the year he had been born, it was the exact date he had been born, too.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The roads were rustic in Ballentree Moor if you could call it a road with all of the potholes, and the mud and rain didn't make it any better. The horses struggled to reach the little hut another thirty minutes away from the actual little village that was Ballentree. The coachman threw Sam's leather bag with a change of clothes right next to him in the mud, but only after he had taken Sam's money to pay for the journey.

“Curse you witches, stay away from us god fearing people.” And with the crack of his whip, he rode off.

The hut looked run down and not rainproof at all, but it would still be better than the waterfall that was raining down on Sam now. He spotted two pillars that were built with all sorts of pebbles, at the very top lay two round, flat stones. Drawn, on both of them was a raven, seemingly painted in blood with a blunt instrument, a fingertip maybe. However, the rain did nothing to wash the crimson off the dark gray rocks.

Sam tried to pass through the pillars and found that he could not. There was something keeping him from crossing. He found more pillars, all with the same symbol and each one them a cornerstone for the strange force that would not let him pass. Raindrops soaked his coat and with nothing else to do, Sam went back to the dead tree, crooked and twisted in front of the house. However little protection the branches could offer, Sam would use, as he leaned against the gnarled stem and waited.

That marked the beginning of the longest period of time he'd ever been denied.

When the downpour stopped, he was still waiting. As the storm began, he was still waiting. Then it dawned and he was still waiting. At one point he could have sworn he saw a pale face through the dirty window and heard a crackling laugh, but he was half delirious from the cold by then. Once the morning came he was shaking, his tailored black trousers, shirt, and jacket not really suited for the sub-zero temperatures or the persistent dampness that clung to them. By the next night's rain, he fell to his knees and passed out for a few hours.

The mist on the next morning finally opened the door for him. A strange man stood in the door frame. He was a few inches shorter than Sam and had green, cat-like eyes that shone unnaturally bright through the opaque swirls of fog. He moved slowly and with a slight limp. His hair was dirty blond and stood in messy spikes. Wearing a too big, black cloak with frayed seams, trousers made from the same fabric and a dark blue cotton shirt adorned by buttons of pale bone, he looked a few years older than Sam.

The man stopped right in front of him and cupped his balls in a hard grip. Sam was too shocked to even say anything, but the pressure was gone after a second and he honestly wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. The man then proceeded to rip the flesh of his thumb open with his teeth and drew a cross of blood onto Sam's forehead, all the while mumbling in language Sam didn't understand.

“You can move now. “ He said, voice rough as though he didn't use it very often. “You here for a love potion? Need a little help to woo your missus?”

Sam shook his head.

Poisonous Green narrowed to suspicious slits. “You need something for your prowess in bed, then.”

“No...” said Sam, confused now.

“So you are here for the pain in your joints and the creaking of your back when you get up?” The fog made little crystal drops of water cling to the man's ashen hair.

Sam shook his head again.

The other man's voice was agitated now. “You're not like the others, are you? You need nothing, yet you come here, wanting.”

“I am like no others.” He whispered, weak from the cold and two days without food or drink. “I am like no one.”

The man nodded, resigned but also determined and stepped closer. “All right, I have a scar on my back and you will tell me how I got it.”

"How could I possibly know..." Sam choked on the rest of his words as suddenly the strange man curled his left hand around Sam's neck, keeping him in place, the fore- and middle finger of his right hand pressed into Sam's forehead, right at the center of the bloody cross, dirty fingernails indenting his skin.

“You close your eyes and go into your mind. You feel my spine through my fingertips, you do this now or you turn around and take your cursed soul elsewhere.” Sam closed his eyes.

"Well done, Sammy." The man cooed and Sam's knees went weak. "You have a strong mind, though it's been breached before. You are constantly alert, waiting, dangerous and nimble. Like a snake. Rattling and rattling your little tail, and people still step on you. And how they cry and cry when you bite them." Dean paused. "Flick your tongue now, smell my bones and follow them. Feel my spine and my past, feel my pain and follow to its source."

Sam shuddered and tried to imagine himself as a cobra, coiled and dangerous. His body long and smooth, feeling the world around through vibration and smell, noticing even the smallest of movements the least bit of warmth.

"A man," he whispered feeling the ghost of claws biting into his flesh. Hooks too deep to ever let go. The absolute certainty that he wouldn't escape, that the Demon would rather kill him than giving him up. The burning touches on his skin. Hurting, even more so when the master was kind, stroking rather than scratching. Yellow eyes that saw everything. Every emotion open to him, and every single one of them a weapon. Sam retched to get rid of the bile in his throat: "Ownership. A branding iron." He coughed and the restrictive touch was gone. Sam fell forward, vomiting onto the mud.

The man turned around and slowly made his way back to the building, speaking without turning. "You can cross now. Leave everything you were outside this door. Bring only what you are."

When Sam entered the hut, a damp rag hit his chest.

"Clean up." The man took an iron plate from a cupboard, poured some thick stew into it, and sat down on a wooden chair by the fire. Sam did as he was told and stepped closer to the hearth. Warmth blossomed on his skin and it felt so good he could have cried. There wasn't much space, even less so because the ceiling was low and there were herbs and flowers dangling from it, amidst bits of string and twig, fur, and bone.

The man gestured towards to chair facing him. “You can sit.” Sam sat down.

"No one comes here unless they want to see me. I get the occasional poacher, but you look more like a rich fuck from the city." Sam blushed, still not quite used to hearing blatant cursing, however often times he had heard it in the dark and narrow streets of the big city.

“I spoke with Ferdinand Lyle.” Sam swallowed nervously. “And others.”

The man chuckled, a dry sound like a creaking door. " Yeah, right, I'm famous. Published in a book and all that. Didn't help me to put food on the table, though."

"I assumed you were a woman." Sam glanced hungrily at the stew. It didn't look appealing but it smelled like heaven, the distinctive aroma of rabbit, cabbage, and mushrooms. His mouth watered.

As if to spite him the man slowly ate a few spoonful of soup before he answered. “Witches are always women. And Cuthousband sounds kinda dumb. You wanna know why that's my name?” The man didn’t leave Sam a chance to answer. “They come to me when they are pregnant. When they need their baby’s killed, they come here. I cut it out of them. Cutwife.”

Their eyes locked. Sam noticed that there was a certain wild beauty to the man. His pupils were too big and too dark, as though he had glanced behind the veil and seen too much. His lips were plush, and pale freckles were spattered across his nose and cheeks.

“Fetching name, don't you think?” Dean smirked as though he was daring him to disagree. When Sam didn't answer he continued. “People talk a lot of shit. I'm cursed and wretched, but they still come. They come when they have no choice. Did you have a choice?”

Sam thought about it, then nodded.

"So you're not completely useless. Congratulations." The man inclined his head to the left, curious like a crow. "You can call me Dean. Tell me what you want."

Outside the rain made hollow noises as it hit the thick, ox-eye windows. Suddenly Sam felt the effort of the last few days as though a physical weight had been placed on his shoulders. It was pulling him down, urging him to just give in. Give up. No food, no sleep, always hunted, always different, always struggling.

"I want to know what I am." His voice was brittle.

Dean looked at him like he was a child, caught with his hands in his mother's wallet. “You already know what you are, Boy King.”

Sam nodded again. Lucifer had called him that, too. He had searched for the phrase some time back. The Boy King was the one to lead hell's legions. Lead them out of hell and into one last battle against the Angels. In the book, it said that the earth and all living things would be destroyed if this ever came to pass. "I am cursed, you need to help me. Cure me," he begged.

"Not gonna happen." Dean shook his head and continued to eat the soup, talking through the food. Either he had no manners or he didn't care about basic niceties. Sam smiled, remembering all the times he had to go to bed without dinner when the maids or the Wessons caught him, talking too animatedly to let himself be stopped by a mouthful of food.

"I can cure your back pain or your broken heart. I can curse a girl to fall in love with you. I can help you poison your brother. I can help you to kill your best friends." Dean smirked, it was sharp-fanged and hurt. "Though you don't seem to need any help with that."

 

_May 11, 1874_

_Sam strolled through the big, bright corridors of his family's mansion, always on the way to Jessica, his best friend, and daughter of their only neighbors. He would have to pass through a few sparse trees and a great black iron gate to get to Moore's estate. The gate was never closed, both of their families united in friendship. He and Jess would walk along the shore, playing, nothing but endless blue skies watching over them. Jess was the more reasonable one. She always popped the bubbles of Sam's daydreams with her rationality._

_Sam would say: “Let's just swim as far out as we can. We will swim until we reach Africa. We will do whatever we want, we will explore and ride on lions and no one will ever tell us what to do.”_

_And Jess would argue: “It's too cold and too far. We have no money and we are too young. We have no idea how far Africa is, and we don't speak the language. They would send us back as soon as we arrive and the lions would eat us.” Things that Sam didn't want to hear and hadn't even thought about either._

_He would dare her into it anyway._

_They swam for an hour before Jessica's father, Sir Nicolas, dressed as always in a sharp suit even on his day off, came out with a boat to rescue them from drowning. They weren't allowed on the beach for a month after that._

Dean took another spoonful of soup, chewed on the brawny bits of the rabbit for a while. “Vampire. Nasty business. Nothing you could have done. But you already knew that. You didn’t want to know, but that’s not how this works.”

Sam said nothing, he sat there, shivering with exhaustion and hunger, waiting for the hearth's warmth to reach his core. Trying to accept that both Peter and Jess were dead and gone. And realizing that the cold in his heart had nothing to do with rain and storm.

"She's still alive though" Dean continued, seemingly random. "She's just not herself anymore. Are you prepared to deal with that?"

Sam looked away. He wasn't and doubted that he ever would be.

Dean spat a bit of bone onto his hand and placed it on the rim of his bowl. "Anyway, if you are truly touched by the devil, I can't do anything for you." He placed the empty bowl on a nearby side table. "There is but one path you can walk and it has one conclusion. I can give you knowledge, it will lead you there faster, easier, but I can't help you if you don't want to walk." He stood up and carried the bowl to the sink where he cleaned it, silently, as though the younger man was already gone. It was a blatant hint to do just that.

Only Sam didn't want to go. Not before he at least gained some more insight into his powers and fate. Not before he learned more about Dean. There was something about the witch that fascinated Sam, something that called to him, something he needed to explore. He summoned the snake, felt smooth scales covering his skin, his eyesight getting dimmer and the new brightness that came with taste and sound. “The one that burned you. You loved him?” He spoke, his words warping on his forked tongue like hisses. “You were his and he betrayed you. You trusted him, you gave him everything and he took it and twisted it until you didn't recognize yourself anymore.”

Dean sighed deeply in surrender, dried his hands with a towel and fetched a deck of cards out of a mahogany box. The cards were a luxurious violet that changed to ruby when he moved them, with a curling silver snake skeleton glancing in the pale light. They seemed completely out of place in the humble shack, like Sam had been at the big celebrations in the Wesson estate. Always more interested in discussions than dancing.

The other man spread the cards out in a big half-circle over the table. "So you want to learn? Everything? The arts?"

Sam nodded, although he didn't know what the other meant exactly.

“You're not scared?”

He shook his head but Dean's narrowing eyes told him that the lie had not slipped by him. The man took Sam's hand in his and guided it to hover over the cards. "What do they tell you?"

"Nothing," Sam answered immediately, without thinking and received a hard slap to the back of his head.

Dean growled, his palm slamming down onto the table. “I told you it doesn't work like that. You either get over yourself or get your ass out of here. I don't particularity care if you want your gifts or not, but you will start using them now, or you will stop wasting my goddamn time.”

Sam tried to get something, anything, from the cards. He didn't want to disappoint Dean and he really wanted to get better at this. His forefinger came to rest on a card before he had even realized the silky feeling of paper on his fingertip. “Do I look at it?”

Dean was already climbing up the narrow staircase, Sam assumed that his bed was up there. "You can, though we both know what it shows. There's still stew left. You can sleep on the sofa." And with that, he was gone from view.

Sam carefully turned the card around. It was the devil.

 

_ September 12, 1876 _

_Sam was also friends with Jess' brother, Peter. The three of them would work together to stuff the many dead animals Nick brought from the far away continent. Their first experiments at taxidermy looked awkward and more like Sam's plush toys than an actual animal, but they got better with time. Nick brought them the horns of rhinos, the pelts of big cats and the ivory of elephants. The kids would imagine all these animals, how they would look, and what they would eat and they had a great time together._

_Both Sam and Jess would daydream about any and all of their very limited male acquaintances. They would gush about Mr. Andrews mustache and sly elegance until Peter begged them to talk about literally anything else._

_Peter was the first to tell Sam to stop talking about men like he had a crush. That his interests should lie with girls and even if they didn't, he should at least act like they did, because it was wrong for men to like other men._

_Mrs. Wesson was the second. She lectured him that God made man and woman be partners,_ _everything else was sin and Sam would be punished for it._

_When Sam told Jessica about his preference for boys she hugged him and said that people were stupid, and he should love whoever he wanted. Nevertheless, she agreed that he should probably only reveal his true feelings to them once he was sure that they would accept him. Whenever Sam was with her he didn't have to hide his crushes, but from then on, the both of them only talked about boys when they were alone._

_Sam loved Jess like a sister, she was his only confidant, and the only person he did not have to keep any secrets from. They told each other everything, shared dreams and passions, habits and possessions. Their families often joked about how those two were basically engaged already and neither Sam nor Jess could have imagined a greater pleasure than to be promised to their best friend._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From here on out there will be smut.

That evening Dean prepared a stew with the rabbit's bones and the few chunks of stringy meat it provided. Sam expected that they would eat little else. They had no cattle, and deer was a lot harder to catch than critters. He sorted through all the herbs, some of them he bound into a bunch to dry, others had to be mashed or cut into pieces as Dean told him.

They had both changed clothes, Dean was in a better fitting, long sleeved tan shirt and forest green trousers. Without the cloak, Sam could at least guess his body type now. Brawny he thought, muscles more pronounced by little food and hard living. 

“Tell me about your mother.” Sam sucked a breath in and forced himself to exhale quietly. Whenever he became close to feeling content, Dean would say something that got him into emotional turmoil again. Completely oblivious to his discomfort, or maybe just not caring, Dean chopped the rabbit into bits.

_ August 25, 1878 _

_It was the evening of another one of Sir Nicolas' glorious returns. Both or their families were united by rich food and Nicks exotic tales. It was an opportunity for Jess, Peter, and Sam to also learn a few choice cuss words they hadn't known before. Later that evening, as the sun began to set, Sam wandered into the hedge maze that made up a big part of Moore's family garden. He aimed to find Peter and Jess as they had been playing a game of hide and seek and the maze was always the first hiding spot. It was familiar to him, the confined corners held no danger, for he knew it like the back of his hand._

_Soft laughter and heavy breathing were pouring from the next corner but Sam didn't run to catch up with Jess and Peter. Perhaps he felt even then that something wasn't quite right. The night got darker the further he went and where he never before felt afraid, an ominous thrill now called goosebumps to his skin. He didn't find his friends. Instead, he found Sir Nicolas fucking Mrs. Wesson against a hedge._

_Sam knew what fucking was. It was something he has seen Mr. and Mrs. Wesson do on one memorable occasion. When he had asked, Mr. Wesson had told him that it was something only married people did to make children, that it only took place in private bedrooms and that it was in very bad taste to talk about it. Sam had wondered then, why the Wesson would even have to do that since he was the living, painful truth, that they could not have kids of their own._

_Anyway, he knew that Nicolas and his mother were neither married nor in a bedroom and therefore that they did something bad. He felt the evening breeze on his skin, how it ruffled his white silk shirt and carried soft grunts and shrill cries to him. The pull grew stronger in him, he felt it whispering, felt the heat curl in his stomach, the beginning of stiffness in his cock. It felt stronger now, like fingertips on his skin, pulling it apart at the seams._

_His right hand wandered to his cock, stroking in tandem with Mr. Moore's thrusts, the other he bit into, leaving red indents and see-through threads of spit, so he wouldn't make a sound. He focussed on Nicolas, imagining the sly curl of his lips, the cocky light in his eyes, how he'd press his mouth onto Sam's in desperation, sucking, nipping at his taste, like he was sucking bruises into Mrs. Wesson's cleavage. His hands placed on Sam's hips, fingers digging into his skin, hard enough to leave their shape imprinted over slim hip bones. Sam stayed there, hidden, watching until the pair drew apart, Nick closing his pants back up and Mrs. Wesson ruffling her skirts back into order._

_Sam prayed that night. The Wesson's were very religious, and he had always found comfort in the familiar words. This night, however, he felt like something dark had finally found its nest in him, something cold that not even God's warm light could touch. The lord's prayer didn't make him feel as whole and content as it did before and the wicked voices of his desire grew stronger over the next years, strengthened by the many little sins Sam committed._

_The first of them was watching the scene and not turning away in horror. The second not to tell Jess about what he had seen. At the time he told himself that he kept it to himself to protect her innocence, however, in truth, he enjoyed having this potentially disastrous knowledge, this depraved little secret that belonged to him and him only._

_Of course, Sam never called them sins, sins was a too big and bad word for what he did. He called them mischief, something every boy would do, a harmless pastime when the sweeping corridors moved in on him and the endless luxury bored him to tears. Sam would steal one Jess's many brushes, safe in the knowledge that she would never even notice that it was gone. He would touch himself, whimpering soft noises onto his shirtsleeve, twisting his wrist just right, in places where people could easily find him. He would eavesdrop when other people talked, even though he knew that these words were not meant for him to hear._

"I don't want to talk about her." It was clear what Dean was after but Sam didn't have to make it easy for him. 

The chopping got a little more violent and Sam couldn't hide a wince. He would choke on those splintered rabbit bones at dinner, he just knew it.

Dean's voice had this special pitch sometimes. Like a laugh that was only a choke away from crying. “She was an adulterer, wasn't she?”

Sam turned around and went to the other side of the room to put the wild rosemary onto the window sill to dry. The sinking sun put the dead tree outside in stark relief and for a moment he imagined a hanged corpse dangling from the crooked branch. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of the wooden table next to him. “I don't want to talk about it.” He repeated.

“Well, tough luck, Sammy, cause we're gonna talk about it.” He heard Dean's footsteps and turned around. Sam could feel the satisfaction radiating from the older man like glowing embers, he didn't even have to see the damned smirk. “You watched her and you liked it, how she was fucked by other men, such a dirty boy you were, Sammy.”

Suddenly, it was too much. Dean's looming presence, standing too close and seeing everything Sam didn't want him to. Whatever was left of his self- control had been torn to shreds by the nickname. He hated how it felt so achingly familiar when Dean said it. “Will you just stop calling me that? It's not my name and you really don't know me well enough for nicknames.”

Dean smirked and crowded him against the wall next to the window. “Oh, but I know you, Sammy. I know you so well. I know that you imagined yourself in your mother's place a thousand times, always watching and so so envious. All those men, so far under her station, gardeners, and servants and your best friends dad.”

Sam closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the flowery smell of rosemary. The other man's strong arms surrounded him and there was no chance to get away. Sam was half-hard and Dean kicked his quivering legs apart with decisive movements, pressing his thigh against the bulge. Sam whimpered and his eyes flew open. 

A hard tug on his hair made him look up, Dean had an almost cruel light in his eyes. He was still unearthly beautiful. His lips were this perfect pink that looked so fucking inviting, Sam would have done anything to kiss him. ”Yeah, spread your legs,” Dean grunted, “just like your whore mother did.”

The fog is his brain dissolved, swept away by his intense anger, good thing too because he had been seconds away from humping Dean's leg, and wouldn't that be the perfect end to a fucking perfect day? He shoved the other man away and followed with a hard punch to his face. Dean didn't even try evade, just stood there, with a weirdly sincere smile. The split lip oozed blood and he licked it away, while Sam tried not to make a sound at that. 

“Finally.” Dean sighed. “I was beginning to think I had to get you off first.”

"What?" Sam had no idea what was even going on anymore. 

"Well, the original intent of this whole exercise was that you learn to stay in control because you really have enough weaknesses already, you don't need your whole past to be another one. You didn't save Peter, or Jess, or your mother, hell some would argue that their deaths were in some way, more or less, caused by you." 

Sam really wanted to punch Dean again.

“But you can't let that affect you.” Dean stepped close and placed a warm hand on Sam's shoulder and he really wanted to shake the soft pressure off, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because it was Dean, and Dean not touching him was ultimately always worse than the opposite.

“If you want to have a chance against Lucifer, you have to control your emotions. You have to fight, even if they taunt you, even if their words hurt, you have to keep on fighting. They will come for you, and when they do, you can't afford any weaknesses.” Sam saw Dean's intent expression blurring before his eyes.

_Voices taunting him. He's sitting curled into a corner. Dirty like a rat, maybe thirteen years old, blond hair and green eyes. There is a mob of people surrounding him, some of them throw small stones and rotten fruit. They scream abuse at him. Freak. Witch. Demonchild. The words fill his head, thicken the air until he struggles just to breathe._

_No one there will help him. His clothes are too big on him, he nearly drowns in them, cowering on the floor as he is, trying to appear as small as possible but they still see him. He is pressed against the wall, hard enough to bruise, but not to vanish. He feels the warm wetness of urine running down his legs and he knows he will die. His last thought is of his brother._

Before Dean had time to say anything, Sam asked: “Won't you be in danger too?”

The other man frowned. “I'm on borrowed time already. Makes my last days more worthwhile. But you still have a life to live, you have time...” He stopped talking and looked at the door like he had heard something. That was the first time he ever saw fear in Dean's eyes.

“Stay here. Do not move.” Dean said with a stern look and left the hut, closing the door firmly on his way out. Naturally, Sam ignored the warning and watched through the little window in the door. The older man was struggling to walk upright without his stick, the strain apparent in the rigid line of his back.

Three people in dark cloaks stood in front of the pillars, the man in the middle spoke, Sam assumed it was a man because he was as tall as Dean. He understood nothing of the conversation, the heavy winds of the moor howled too loud. Dean seemed to answer because the man kept on speaking to him, but he glanced towards the door ever so often. Sam had no idea what was happening and resolved to open the door a bit to eavesdrop when he saw Dean taking a small step forward. And another. He walked like he struggled through a storm, fighting for each step. Or fighting to stay still. 

Sam threw the door open, screamed “Stop” and both Dean and the man fell to their knees. He rushed forwards to help Dean to his feet.

The man got up and looked at Dean pityingly like one would look at a dead cat. A moment of sadness but ultimately of no greater notice than that. "Oh, he is wasted on you." He had a posh accent, pitch black eyes and short hair that was darker than Sam's. The man looked like he was in his forties, three-day stubble, cocky smirk and rigged like he was expecting to meet the queen that same evening. The emerald velvet of his vest stood out, tapered with silver and black. The two girls at his side would have been pretty, if not for their cruel eyes and bared teeth. "Give him to me." 

"No,"Dean refused, leaning heavily on Sam's arm. 

The man smiled but it never reached his eyes. "The circle won't hold forever. Your power is running out." He came closer, steps elegantly like he was dancing. "Do you really want this to be your last battle?" His condescending tone had Sam's teeth on edge. 

"It is the only fucking battle that matters." Dean's voice was shaking, but there wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that he meant it. 

The man and his goons turned around, walked a few steps into the night, and vanished.

Dean seemed weakened in the aftermath, his limp worse than ever and Sam led him straight to bed, He helped Dean undress, exhaling hard when he saw the other man's back. Dean was very muscular beneath his loose-fitting clothes, but that wasn't the reason Sam was shocked. The scar Sam had felt was so much bigger than he had thought, bisecting Dean's whole back, the elevated pale lines coming together to create a pentagram. 

"Pretty, isn't it?" Dean said, sounding old and tired as he closed his eyes. Sam tugged him in and sat on the edge of the bed. 

"I can hear you thinking, just ask." The heavy blankets made him look small.

Sam smiled, relieved that Dean still had the strength to sass him. “Who was that out there?”

"Crowley." Dean said the name like he intended to curse the person bearing it." When my father died, I was in a bad spot. We had lost my little brother, Samuel and my mom a year before to a fire and my dad couldn't accept it. He drank too much and left me with nothing. I slept on the streets of New York for a month and then I decided that morals are nice and everything, but I'd much rather have food. I joined a gang. Nearly got myself killed on my first job too, stabbed." 

Sam didn't want to think about what his life would have been like on the street. He had remained in an orphanage until he was three but then the Wesson's had adopted him and from that point on he had lived in luxury. His recent money troubles were tame compared to what Dean must have gone through. 

Dean continued: “Crowley found me and stitched me back together. He delivered me to a man named Azazel, said I would learn things there. Said I was something special. Azazel gave me food and a place to sleep. I found a family with him, orphans, rejects and thieves, and he was our mentor. We were all so happy there, learning witchcraft and spells, it seemed like a dream to me. I looked up to him, would have done anything he asked and did many things I wasn't proud of.” The older man smiled softly, lost in the memories.

“Sure we had to steal a few things for him, hurt a few people, but it was way better than what you had to do in the gangs. I thought I was truly blessed back then _._ ” He laughed, it was a sad, little sound. “I was stupid. When something seems too good to be true, that's because it usually is.”

"Then, a few years later, Crowley came to visit. From then on Azazel took more and more kids in, spent less and less time with each of us. The spells we learned got more dangerous, required more power. We learned more blood magic and curses and where we previously paid the price for those, he now found more or less willing sacrifices we used. He demanded that we fight each other, fight to the death. He said that he needed to find the best of us, the strongest, that he had a special purpose for them. Naturally, he bribed us with gold and fame, power, love, everything children that lost too much were starved for." Fighting with his emotions, Dean swallowed silently before continuing, his words harsh. 

"But I had already been happy. I had friends and a home now. I didn't want anything. All I wanted was for things to go back the way they were. I had no desire to fight my brothers and sisters, so I fled. Azazel didn't let me go that easy. With the bits of magic I knew, I tried to make a living, but people are always wary of witches and I had to leave often. I traveled for some years before I came here, and the people were even crueler. But I stayed." Sam remembered the scared, green eyed boy and wished that he could have been there for him. It felt wrong to not have dried his tears and dressed his scrapes. If fact the very idea that they had led separate lives before seemed fundamentally wrong to him. 

"The village witch took me in, this was her hut." Dean's tone was colored with gratitude as he gestured towards the shabby building around them. "She continued to teach me the arts. I learned different things from her, smaller, but more useful. How to cure aches, how to curse someone, without outright killing them. How to heal injuries or make them worse. She died and since then I became the resident witch." Dean didn't really look sad, but regretful. 

“I'm sorry.” Sam took Dean's hand into his own and squeezed it softly, to let him know that he wasn't alone now, and would never again be so.

Dean smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, well, not your fault. The villagers killed her as she went to fetch food for us, fucking fanatics. Tried to burn the hut down with me in it, but thankfully, it began raining once they left. The next day, a young girl came to have her baby killed and I helped her, as I helped everyone that sought my help since then. But that's the past. We need to concentrate on the future. Go to bed, Sammy." He didn't want to leave. Sam wanted to stay here with Dean, lay down on the bed next to him. To put his arms around him and keep both their nightmares at bay. But that wasn't his place and he left to sleep on the couch, once again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo, new chapter. Meet Franklin, you might know him from somewhere, cause I can't write original characters for shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not keeping up my posting schedule. I hurt my back two summers ago, moving a fridge...  
> No, I just pinched a nerve or something, and I couldn't get up for two weeks. I just read fanfic and watched shows, lying on my back the whole time, it was awesome, except for the excruciating pain. But I'm back now and posting should resume normally.

A few days later, as Sam came back from the forest, firewood in his arms, he found a man standing by the door of the hut. His dense beard was well-groomed and he was dressed in leather and linen, his belly protruding in evidence of his wealth. The expression on his face spoke of equal parts intrigue and fear but managed to put on a neutral mask as Sam approached. He seemed like he hadn't quite made the decision to stay, but now that there was another one here, he felt obligated to prove his courage.

Sam knocked on the door and Dean let them both in. As he put the branches away, he wondered why the man could pass the stones when he, himself, had not been able to. Maybe the barrier blocked the supernaturally gifted exclusively. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that the man was completely and utterly normal.

Taking a seat on the wobbly wooden stool they offered him, his calm facade broke down and the man looked around like a nervous animal, trying to keep both Sam and Dean in his line of sight and find an escape route at the same time. With his carefully waxed and curled mustache trembling, he resembled a fluffed up hamster.

Sam had a hard time not to laugh, but Dean shot him a warning glance and so he leaned against the table right next to Dean's chair, folding his arms threateningly and schooling his features into a grim expression, the daunting picture somewhat ruined by the insistent, bored tapping of his right foot.

This seemed to sit unwell with their guest. "Why are there two of you? I thought there was only one witch." His voice had the maudlin undertone of a man too often ignored in favor of others.

Dean ignored his worries with a dismissive gesture. “Oh he is a witch, I assure you. The very best, I'm afraid. The witch to end all witches. He's also my protector. I'm sure you remember what happened to the previous cutwife.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” The man stuttered.

Dean smirked. It was a familiar smirk for Sam. The one that meant that Dean would say something threatening or hurtful and Sam would probably come out of the conversation a total emotional wreck. Sam was glad that it wasn't him that would be leaving in tears, for a change.

"Dear, dear Franklin." Dean made a long pause. "I know that. Otherwise, you wouldn't be sitting here right now. You would be buried alive, in the dark, no company but your own thoughts. Worms slowly eating away at your flesh, bugs slurping your tears until your eyes looked like little raisins. Your lips eaten away, and your nice smile crawling with roaches."

The room got progressively darker, more oppressive, Sam felt the touch of Dean's magic and smiled inwardly at his theatrics. Franklin looked at Dean with pure, undiluted horror, there was a sheen of nervous sweat on his face and his fingers were painfully twisted together.

"Let's get to business," Dean said and with that, the room brightened once again. "Love potion, right?"

Franklin finally stopped looking like he would get a heart attack and relaxed a bit. Shifting back onto the chair where he had previously balanced at the edge of the seat, ready to bolt. “How did you...” He mumbled, still without looking directly at Dean and then stopped himself with a whispered, “Oh, right, witch.”

Dean pressed his palms together in his lap before he continued to speak. Sam called it his Praying-for-patience-pose. “You have two choices. A potion, or a curse. The potion, as long as she drinks it once every month, will make her more suggestive to your charm. You still have to woo her the old way, though. “ Franklin seemed confused as to what that would entail but Dean offered no further explanation.

Taking pity, Sam offered: "Bring her flowers or other small gifts, listen to her when she talks, and just show her that she is important to you." Franklin nodded gratefully. But just for a second, Sam would have sworn that there had been a hint of annoyance in the downward tilt of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Dean drawled, “best listen to the guy with the dead girlfriend.” Never in his life had Sam met someone he wanted to punch in the face with such regularity. Pity he also wanted Dean's cock with the same regularity. Not that he'd ever had it. Didn't change wanting it, though.

“She will still be her own person and she will not mindlessly agree with you. She will also still expect to be treated with basic human decency, ignoring little faults, but not abuse from you.” Dean said the last sentence with a grave expression and there it was again, Franklin was definitely frowning.

 

_ February 15, 1883  _

_Jess told Sam that she was supposed to marry Captain Charles Branson as they were sitting together under their favorite cherry tree. His family was wealthy and he would help to elate the Moore's social standing to new heights. More so than Sam's borrowed Wesson heritage would. Sam was able to understand the political reasons if nothing else._

_And so he watched their romance unfold. Now, whenever they talked about boys, Jess would dote on Charles' mustache, and it was a majestic one, Sam quite agreed. Jessica with her blue eyes, pale complexion, blond hair and pastel dresses and Branson with his lithe muscles, brown hair, beard and stylish suits were a striking couple._

_The two of them and Sam and Peter soon became fast friends. They would talk much about their intent to travel, Peter wanted to go to Africa, like his father had done so often, Sam wanted to travel anywhere, though his parents wanted him to get a degree first and the Captain talked much about India. But for all their talk Sam never thought further about the implications of their conversations until one day, he realized his oversight._

_If Charles went to India, Jess would, without a doubt, go with him. The both of them were happy, and they would want to stay together. Sam would be left at home until he finished his theology and philosophy degree and India was terribly far away. He would lose his best friend._

_But there was another thing that troubled Sam. His envy. Sam envied Jess for the love and admiration that was so freely given to her. For the freedom to travel with her soon to be husband and to begin a new life somewhere far away. He envied her happiness, the kisses she and Charles shared, their closeness and their conversations._

_All Sam had was the pull, luring him with its dark promises. Why should soft and gentle Jess be the one to have this adventure in her life, when Sam was so much better suited for it?_

 

That seems like too much work." Franklin was definitely displeased. "I'm only here so I don't have to deal with her in the first place. I just want an easy, simple live with her. I can't do that if she runs after every single one of her dreams and aspirations. Petra wants to learn how to read, like that would help her cook or wash or even care for our children. I'm not rich. I can't pay for a maid to keep the house in order, while my wife fancies herself a scholar." At this point, Sam's fingernails left red half moons imprinted in the meat of his upper arms.

"Ahh, see, now we're talking. You want the love curse. It will change her innermost self to become exactly what you desire." Dean's bright grin was unsettling but his words pulled Franklin in like a fish on a hook. "If you want an independent partner in crime, she will become that. If you want a devoted housewife that'll bear your children, she'll become that. If you want a helpless pet to care for, she'll become that. But don't come crying to me, when you can't handle what she turns into. It's your head, not mine." The older man went through one of the cabinets and fetched the box in which they kept the curse ingredients. Every curse had different ones, but some, like cats teeth and beech ash went into almost every curse bag.

Franklin's eyes were alight with want, Dean seemed very pleased with himself and Sam felt violently ill. How could anyone do that to someone they claimed to love?

Dean extended his open hand. "For the potion you will give me all the money you brought and for the curse, that, and your happiest memory." Franklin emptied his purse into the waiting palm and followed the path of the coin into Dean's pocket with a longing gaze.

There was so much wrong with Dean's words, Sam didn't even know where to start. It wasn't right to turn people into slaves for your own desire. And one's deepest wishes were something best kept in the dark. They held power, certainly, but it was a poisonous and destructive force that could enthrall a person to the point of no return. He had never expected Dean to actually do something so obviously evil.

He had known that Dean could cast this curse and many more, even darker ones, but he never expected him to actually do it. Somehow, in his naive little mind, Sam had assumed that Dean would turn these cases away. Humans were created in god's image, and altering something as essential as a person's character wasn't done easily. This would have far-reaching, dire consequences. Dean would have to take Franklin's happiest memory because curses necessitated sacrifices. Someone had to pay the price, and if it wasn't Franklin it would be Dean himself.

However much appalled Sam was with the curse, he didn't want Dean to lose his own happiest memory. He was very much aware that that made him a hypocrite, but with Dean, he never reacted in any way justifiable. Nothing was easy anymore.

When Dean asked for the big knife, Sam fetched it for him. To his credit, he did wonder what Dean wanted it for, but he just assumed that the other man wouldn’t have asked if he didn't need it. It was probably used in some later part of the ritual, maybe for chopping ingredients.

Dean instructed Franklin to lay down on the sofa flat on his back, which he managed barely, with half of his bottom hanging over the edge. Sam knew that feeling, he always had to sleep on his side because his shoulders wouldn't fit otherwise. Dean then put a chair down next to Franklin's head and sat, casually placing the tip of the knife at Franklin's temple.

The big knife lived up to its name. It was fifteen inches long, gleaming steel, with a tip that was curved slightly upward and jagged looking teeth, beginning five inches to the handle and sharpened to perfection. Sam had used it to dismember the doe that Dean had caught in a trap yesterday, the thing went through sinews, cartilage and even small bones like butter.

Franklin looked like he was ready to piss himself and croaked out a “Why are you doing this?” Sam was equally baffled and Deans manic smirk wasn't helping him to feel more calm about this.

"See, Franklin, I will now use this blade," Dean held the knife in front of Franklin's eyes so he could look at it again, before putting it back at his temple. The heavyset men was sweating like a pig and whimpered horrified noises that made Sam almost pity him. Almost. Dean continued completely deadpan: "to dig out the memory you owe me."

From then on Sam knew that something was seriously wrong. He had read about taking a memory in Dean's books. It was done with a ritual, a special set of runes and focussing intensely on the needed memory, retelling it, if necessary. It would be insane to physically cut a memory out of the brain, aside from the fact that no one knew where memories were stored exactly, and using this big a knife would give the guy a lobotomy before finding anything.

"No, please no." Franklin gasped between sobs while Sam wondered if he should intervene. He would have to if the guy continued to cry like that. There was a blob of snot perched on his right cheek and it was very close to dropping. Sam had to sleep on that couch later, dammit.

Dean nodded mock-sympathetically. "I really don't see why you would make such a big deal out of me screwing around in your head, considering how very insistent you were on fucking with Petra's."

He began cleaning the dirt under his fingernails with the tip of the blade, always keeping it in Franklin's field of vision. ”Taking one memory from you is nothing compared to changing her entire being. But you can't even go through with that little bit of sacrifice, can you? ” Dean spat the accusation, green eyes glowing with disgust, the knife twitching forward, cutting a deep, gaping wound along Franklin’s cheekbone. It would make for a prominent scar, once healed.

Satisfied with his knife work, Dean nodded and kicked against the backrest which sent Franklin tumbling to the floor with a groan. He struggled to get up and hurried towards the door, pressing the sleeve of his shirt against the wound and cursing under his breath about demented witches. Dean shouted after him: “I'm keeping the money, asshole, and don't even think about coming back.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some quiet alone time between Sam and Dean, and also some smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the plant lore in this is as accurate as I could make it, but the cartomancy is mostly random with a little inspiration from soothsaying websites.

One evening, as another satisfied woman left the hut with a poison to get rid of her husband, Sam asked Dean: "Aren't you concerned about your soul?" He'd grown up with his parent's teachings, and they made sure that he knew about the fragility of the human soul. Evil deeds would weigh it down, good ones made it light and in the end, it either floated to heaven or dropped to hell. Sam didn't necessarily believe this, but after having irrefutable evidence that the devil wasn't just a nasty fairytale creature, he wasn't as septic as he'd once been. 

Dean huffed a disbelieving laugh. "You are really one to talk, Antichrist boy." He gestured towards the chair next to him and Sam sat down, placing his palms on his thighs because his near constant fiddling annoyed Dean. "We don't know the story behind her wish. Maybe her man hit and abused her. Maybe he ignored her. Maybe she didn't love him. Maybe she loves another, or maybe she's just plain bored. It's not our place to judge. She paid the price and that's all we need to know." 

“But isn't that just ignoring the issue? The morally questionable aspect of our work doesn’t just vanish, just because you don't think about it.” He had no idea why he cared so much. Well, he did know. When it came to Dean he was way too involved not to care.

"Morality isn't quite the same thing for us witches." He didn't look at Sam, instead, he was focused on the gnarly tree outside. "Most people see their deeds as either bad or good, black or white, but in reality, it's much more of a gradient. You have to consider the intent, and the outcome of it, too. Is a well-meant decision that leads to a negative conclusion inherently good or bad? In my opinion, it's both, but you could just as well make a strong argument for either extremes." 

Sam nodded and Dean finally turned to him. He seemed to enjoy teaching, because in moments like these when he found Sam attentive and involved, he got this expression that was proud, but also nostalgic and regretful. Like he remembered receiving the same lessons, and he was glad that he could pass them on differently. 

“Most witches are morally ambiguous, we do things for our own reasons, and they can be as good or bad as we decide. But there are those of us, that have abandoned themselves and consequently lose their humanity. These Nightcomers rejected god and serve Lucifer above all else. We Daywalkers, however, still walk in gods light, no matter how murky it is when it reaches us.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look and received a somewhat indignant eye roll in return. "Like I wouldn't have noticed if you'd gone dark side. We may have killed with our gift and we may have come close to temptation. We may have dabbled in blood magic and cursework, but we paid the price. God has not forsaken us, but we are always in danger to venture one step too far into the darkness." The older man leaned back into the wooden structure of the chair, relaxing his posture, spreading his legs and Sam's breath hitched. 

How someone this pretty could even exist was a mystery to him. He wanted to look at Dean forever and yet it always hurt, too. Seeing the myriad of freckles on his skin, the strong cut of his jaw. It was a sacrilege seeing him like this, sprawled on the chair, no ounce of tension left. No human should be allowed to gaze at something that so clearly had been created by a higher power.

“The Lord's prayer brings comfort to us, but to those who have left his light, it is damaging. A Nightcomer will flinch, if they are confronted with the name of the lord, with holy water or a cross.” It was hard to believe Dean when Sam felt so far removed from god now that he might as well never believed at all. He was tainted by his experiences, his faith in tatters, weak and insubstantial compared to the horrors in his dreams.

“You know about the pull, the thing that constantly whispers sweet promises, if only you were to give in?" Sam nodded. Of course, he knew. 

"Consider yourself lucky it's still there. That means you haven't given in yet." Dean reached over and petted Sam's head a little too rough, smiling as the younger man tried to escape. "We all want to do terrible things, beautiful things, great things. It's even harder for us witches to resist because we already have a taste of the power we could wield. We are like addicts, drinking a sip of beer every day, so we don't chug on the bottle of whiskey we really want." 

 

_ July 24, 1885 _

_On the day before Jess' wedding, Sam tried to kiss Peter. They had become closer over the last year, left out whenever the loving couple wanted privacy. But Sam never shared all his emotions with Peter. He tried to be a perfect picture of himself, a polished jewel, where Jess knew all his edges, Now that Jess had Charles, his fear of rejection was so strong it paralyzed him at times._

_The Moore's estate brimmed with people and flowers, food and presents. Sam hated the signs of the change that was about to come. He didn't know most of the guests, as they were friends and family of Charles and Jessica's parents. Peter seemed likewise inclined to leave the busy wedding preparations behind, and so they fled to the hedge maze together._

_He fondly remembered the times Jess and he had hidden here, between the dark green bushes, frantic nannies shouting after them. They came to a halt in the shadows and Peter confessed his struggle to show his father that he was grown up and strong enough to live his own life. It was his deepest wish to go to Africa with Nicolas and earn some respect for himself there. He saw himself a discoverer, where Nick was a conqueror._

_Sir Nicolas, however, was disinclined to take his son with him, and Sam saw why. Peter was a weak and fragile man, too emotional, too soft for the wild and dangerous country. Where his father was a distinguished authority with the muscle to back it up, Peter was all empathy and wiry grace. But the young man was beautiful in his own right, his emotions like a magnetic pull, disarming and attractive._

_Sam witnessed Peter's turmoil, his frustration bright and volatile, exploding stars illuminating darkness. Without thinking he blurted out: “Stay here with me.” He knew it wasn't right. He wasn't right for Peter, but if he tried, if he could just manage to fit in, maybe he could keep him here. Keep him safe._

_"I can't," Peter answered like Sam knew he would, and still it hurt. "I have to go, I must prove my worth to my father." Sam heard only: "I'm leaving you too."_

_In his despair, he cupped Peter's jaw, pulled him forward and kissed him deeply._

_For a second he let himself consider this life. A life with Peter wher7e he could be normal. Maybe they would adopt children, or dogs, maybe Peter would give up and travelling and Sam would give up on all the visions and all the unused potential inside of him. Maybe it would be pleasant and content. Maybe they would both resent each other forever. There was no way to know._

_But Peter backed away and hurried back to the house, one last apologetic glance over his shoulder. It ached in Sam's heart, and yet there was also a relief._

 

_Heat, dust, and his throat feels dry. The thought of water seems too far removed at that moment, that he doubts he would recognize its cooling wetness if he somehow manages to obtain it. He is lying in the sand and it feels like the world stopped turning. His skin is tanned, his body failing and_ _almost painfully slim, his hair is long and unkempt, and his beard a tangled mess. His appearance a testament to the harsh desert surrounding him. As his eyes close slowly, the life draining out of him, blood oozing into the desert sand, he thinks that his father would surely be proud of him now._

 

_Sam recognized the vision and knew what it meant. He tried to pray for Peter, but he had seen the future and knew that there was no way to change it._

 

_\--00--_

On one of their frequent walks through the woods, Dean tried to teach him the Verbis Diablo. It didn't seem like he was learning a completely foreign language at all. It came to him naturally, nothing like French where he had to repeat each word until it annoyed him to death. The Verbis Diablo was completely different than any other language he had ever studied, in fact, he doubted that it was a language at all. A means of communication, certainly, but it didn't follow any grammatical or logical rules. 

Rather than Sam expressing himself through the words, the words were expressing themselves through him. The growled syllables and hissed sounds were influenced by his intent, but they were not mastered by him. If the language found his choice of words or the meaning behind them objectionable, it would simply change them to suit itself.

Which was why he had just proposed a bout of wild, passionate outdoor sex to Dean instead of asking him about the weather like he had originally intended. 

Dean answered him, one eyebrow arched, cheeks slightly red, the language flowing flawlessly and strangely compelling from his lips. “You have to be in control at all times, always focus on what you want to convey. It's easier if you concentrate on the feeling, rather than the pure meaning of the words. Accept a few of the suggestions the language presents you with and add these to your own.”

He switched back to English and Sam felt bereft for it. Dean could have recited intricate poetry and it wouldn't have the same power, the same emotion, or allure the Verbis Diablo employed effortlessly. “That's enough for today. One mustn’t use the devil's tongue frivolously. You felt the flow behind it, the seduction. You want to speak it and speak it and soon Lucifer's words will be the only ones on your tongue and so the Daywalker becomes a Nightcomer.”

Dean pointed to a plant with pink, small blossoms, all around the upper part of their long stems. Sam didn't need more prompting. "Bethany. Burned at the midsummer solstice for purification and protection. Sprinkled near doors and windows for a protective barrier against evil spirits. Put the ash in a small pouch and place under your pillow to dispel nightmares." 

They were interrupted by a cart pulled by two horses. It carried four men, all of them tired looking, probably on their way home from the fields. They made the cross sign as they passed, one of them spitting at Dean's face. Sam nearly vibrated with rage, but Dean wiped the saliva away with his sleeve, completely unaffected.

“As long as I lived, I will never understand people.” He muttered. “Why they are so scared of all things different? Sometimes I think it's because they want to be something special, but don't have the guts for it. That's probably arrogant of me.”

That evening when Sam washed with a bucket of tepid water he couldn't keep his thoughts from roaming into dangerous territory. He didn't know if his arousal was a repercussion of the Verbis Diablo or if he was just sexually frustrated enough to do something he would have shied away from, otherwise. But as the cloth traveled over his skin, leaving a wet, softly glistening trail, he couldn't resist imagining Dean guiding its path. 

Would he blush at the sight or would his eyes roam freely, hungry with the same desire Sam felt so often? Would he trace Sam's muscles leisurely or would his touch be proficient and quick? Would he take the time to wash Sam's hair, massaging his scalp and running his fingers through the wet strands? 

The thought experiment dissolved quickly when Sam's wandering fingers wrapped around his hardening cock.

\--oo--

They often spoke in the evenings, when there was nothing to do but listen to the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind. Both of them were propped against the solid wooden dinner table, standing in front of the fireplace. On the table were Dean's beautiful tarot cards, randomly spread.

Dean reached for one of the cards and showed it to Sam. “What does this one mean?”

"The lovers." He didn't have to look at Dean to know that he was leering, as his humor consisted mostly of crude puns. Sam himself wasn't much better since he found it endearing instead of annoying and smiled indulgently. "It is a symbol of a connection, not necessarily a romantic one, it's a union, a friendship, or a symbiosis. If two people work together to achieve something, if they are true and fair to each other, give and take, there is little to stand in their way. It also symbolizes the natural balance of things, man and woman, day and night, good and evil, nature needs both in equal measure." 

The next card pictured a man hanging by his feet from a t-shaped tree. One leg was stretched, the other bent, both of his hands clasped behind his back, a halo around his head.

"The hanged man," Sam answered the silent question. "It means to believe, even if there's no hope. To accept pain, knowing that it is only temporary. And to wait and embrace change as it comes." 

Dean nodded, picking another card from the ones on the table and looking at it with a frown. “It really shouldn’t be possible picking the same card that often.” He revealed it to Sam.

“The devil. A warning to recognize the evil and our lives and our minds and get rid of it. A reminder to stay strong in the face of temptation and accept our potential to do good, as well as bad.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “I sometimes wonder if you really experience the world like this, or if you can't bear to see it any another way.” Dean's glance was soft and his voice rough in the evening. The deliberate cruelty Sam witnessed during the day seemed to disappear with the light.

“What happens when we give in?” The question burst out him and he immediately wished he could take it back. He didn't want to ruin the good mood with his whining.

"Well." Dean crossed his arms and glanced out of the window, into the darkness of the night. "You become the Boy King. Your coming will mark the apocalypse. You are Lucifer's vessel, so he will take possession of you. I don't know how mentally strong you are, as I'm no match for you in that respect, but best case is you stay yourself, crueler, maybe, certainly more powerful. Worst case he takes over everything and you will be a prisoner in your own mind, able to watch but never to  interfere with what he does. When the world has been ravaged by the fighting between demons and angels, when all the dark creatures of the night have fed and the last of humanity has been decimated by plagues, only then is your fate fulfilled.”

“What happens to you?” Sam kept his voice steady, somehow.

“I will become a Nightcomer, I shall use my magic to serve first Lucifer, then myself, in that order. If I should be a lacking servant to him, if I’m not powerful or ruthless enough, I will host a demon who shall feed on my strength and serve Lucifer in my stead.” There was no sign that any of this upset him in any way. It was like he already made his peace with this outcome. Like he expected it.

Sam felt his temper rise. "How can say that so calmly? You wouldn't even try to fight. You would just give up and let yourself be taken, be used, again. " By the end, he nearly screamed the words. 

The older man shrugged. “It either happens or it doesn't. I should have died a long time ago. My reason to live died a long time ago.”

Sam stepped in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. "Does this mean nothing to you?" he whispered, the words echoing in his head: "Do I mean nothing to you?" Dean didn't answer and Sam pressed a hard kiss against his lips, biting into the plump flesh of his lower lip, tearing into it, willing Dean to respond. 

Dean tried to shove him away, but at the same time he returned the kiss, blood and spit shared between them like ambrosia. He welcomed Sam into his mouth with sweet surrender, and though he gasped “We really shouldn't...” on his next breath, it didn't sound convincing for either of them.

With one shove Sam pushed Dean backward onto the table, scattering the cards some more and bending to whisper "Shut up" into his ear, nibbling at the skin. The movement brought his dick in contact with Dean's stomach and he groaned at the delicious friction. 

Their lips met again and Dean's mouth was wet and yielding, the slight iron tang, a delicious addition to Dean's own sweetness. His tongue tasted like all of Sam's favorite things as it intertwined with his own, rosemary and sage from their shared dinner, the lemon balm leaves Dean chewed whenever he needed a treat and something musky and addicting that was just Dean. Every one of Sam's hip thrusts Dean retaliated by a rough stab of his tongue. It was a fight, felt as violent as some of their more serious arguments and Sam couldn't figure out who was winning. He couldn't think beyond a litany of _fuckdeanwantmore,_ couldn't imagine ever not having this _ , _ having Dean _. _

Each slick glide of the other man's tongue against his own caused another drop of precome soaking trough the rough wool of Sam's pants. He was painfully hard, too many layers of clothing separating them, and yet neither bothered to get rid of them. Dean's irregular pushes against him threw his rhythm off, it was a struggle to get enough stimulation. Embarrassing little whimpers and desperate pleas fell from his lips and Dean devoured them all, licked them up like sweets.

Sam's orgasm overtook him without any kind of warning, one second he was rutting against Dean frantically, the next he was shuddering and clinging to his body like a lifeline, trying to stay afloat. He drowned, felt the darkness taking him, numbing his racing thoughts, muting all sounds. It felt divine, this complete surrender, being so vulnerable, so dependent on another person.

He came to kneeling alone on the floor, with no sign of Dean anywhere. Sam searched even the upper levels of the house, Dean's small bed with its rugged wool blankets and furs was empty. There was no trace of the other man anywhere.

After one night of panic and restless, nightmare-plagued sleep on the couch, Dean returned. He behaved like he always did, rude and painfully honest with the one exception that he didn't answer any of Sam's questions regarding the previous evening.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life is really busy and I'm not quite recovered health-wise.

When Sam came back from his morning run, hair still wet from the wash bucket outside, he found a woman with Dean. They sat close together, whispering and laughing, it was such a foreign concept that Dean would have a friend amongst the people living in the village, that Sam couldn't keep the surprise off his face.

The woman met his gaze and she frowned immediately, Sam had no idea what he had done to earn her ire but it was just at well since Dean didn't make any attempt to introduce him or call him over.

So he continued on with his duties, inspecting all the bundles of dried herbs for mold, checking if they had enough firewood left, washing the clothes and hanging them outside since the sun shined and that was rare enough in the moor. When he was finished he took a book about rare plants and their healing properties out of Dean's shelf upstairs and settled down on the sofa to read it. Placing his head on the armrest and putting his feet up on the cushions just to annoy Dean, who always claimed that that was a privilege reserved for the host only. Not that Dean even looked over to him once.

He didn't try to overhear their conversation, but the hut was small and he couldn't really help it. Or so he told himself.

"You owe me, Dean," she said and pouted her pink lips. Sam wanted to believe that she was ugly, but she really wasn't. She had gray eyes that shifted to pale green or blue with the light, fine features, high cheekbones and ash blond hair that fell to her shoulders in slight waves. She looked like Sam imagined Dean would look as a woman, beautiful and capable. It was depressing how good they looked together, how well they fit. Her classy, gray velvet dress hugged her in all the right places, it accentuated her small waist, and the skirt flowed like water as she leaned even closer into Dean's space. He was ogling her cleavage with barely concealed interest and didn't mind her closeness at all.

This one probably wouldn't even have to pay for what she wanted. Dean had told him that he accepted sexual services as payment if the lady was pretty enough, with a wink and a blinding smile that stunned Sam with its radiance. It was always a bit of a shock to notice how handsome Dean actually was, not that Sam was able to forget that fact very often.

"Yeah, I know sweetheart," His voice was rough and low, liquor smooth. Ex-fucking-cuse me, Sam thought. Dean had never graced him with any endearments, all he got was the occasional Sammy and until today that had been enough, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. "I just don't know what I can do. This isn't a one solution problem that you have. You need different curses and potions and probably spells, too."

“That's why I came to you in the first place. You said that you owed me a favor, so do your fucking job and get me out of this.” There was a hint of hounded anguish in the woman's tone, and a cruel tilt to her lips that told Sam she wasn't joking.

Dean placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, maybe to calm her down, maybe because he wanted to touch her. Both pissed Sam off to an unreasonable degree. "I said once that I would do everything for you, Bela, but if I get you out of this, we are done. Whatever I owe you will be repaid in full and you leave me alone after that. I can't have you coming here every year demanding another favor." What was that about? Sam wished, not for the first time, that he knew more about Deans past.

Bela stood with a stiff nod. Her body language closed off where it previously was open, even flirtatious. Sam had seen that in women of the trade a lot, affectionate during an interaction, guarded and ready to fight at every other time. He wondered what her home life had to be when this was her coping mechanism. “You have one month, I will stop by once a week to check up on your progress.” She gave Sam a nod too and then left the hut, head held high.

The older man got up and sauntered over to where Sam was sitting on the sofa. On sunny days his leg didn't hurt much and at those times his swagger just burst out of him. Sam didn't like the moor much because sunny days were rarer than caviar out here. Dean picked up Sam's feet and instead of dropping them rudely to the floor like he usually did, he sat down with a sigh and then placed them in his lap. That more than anything was a sign that something was eating at him. Sam couldn't just ask, though, because that would lead to Dean changing the topic and laughing about him and his delicate sensibilities.

He wiggled his toes a little and miraculously, Dean began to knead his feet through the socks. It was as relaxing as the warm foot baths his nanny had prepared for him in the winter and Sam wanted it to never stop. He was on his thirtieth page before Dean finally decided to speak. "That was Bela." There was a fondness in his voice but also an odd sort of quiet acquiescence.

“She has influence in the village and uses it to protect me. I helped her get a few special things for her shop. She sells things that are difficult to obtain, mostly.” Dean's eyes shifted suspiciously and Sam guessed that some of Bela's merchandise wasn't exactly legal.

"This job for her will be dangerous, Sammy, and if you don't want to be involved, I'd totally get it." Dean tilted his head, so it rested on the back of the sofa. His pale throat was so inviting that Sam fought with himself not to suck a bruise into the unmarked skin.

Shaking his head to dislodge the thought he asked Dean to tell him what Bela wanted.

“10 years ago she made a deal with a crossroads demon so that she would be the one in charge of her family’s affairs.” Sam nodded. Women didn't inherit their family’s wealth, even if they were the firstborn, their husbands were the ones in power. “The demon gave her ten years to enjoy her independence. Her husband leads a firm in London and visits every two years, while she manages her family’s fortune and the estate. In about a month her time is up.”

It was obvious where this went and Sam stared at Dean in disbelief as he continued. "We have to get rid of the hellhound that will hunt her and find a way to convince her husband to stay in America, leaving her to her own devices." Dean finally opened his eyes and glanced in Sam's direction.

“Right,” Sam said, deadpan, “get rid of a hellhound. Are you completely fucking crazy?”

Dean's puppy dog eyes were his weakness but considering the canine topic, it failed to have the usual impact. “We have to do something,” Dean said, expression turning cold, faced with Sam's refusal. “we can't just let her die.”

Normally Sam was all for saving people, but hellhounds were a serious danger to them both, and he wasn't ready to sacrifice Dean's or his own life for anyone. "You know as well as me that there is nothing we can do. The only one who can call off hellhounds is the demon that holds her contract, or Lucifer himself. And I won't ask Lucifer for a favor just so you can score some thank-you-for-saving-my-life-sex. If she is stupid enough to make a deal with a demon, it's her own fault."

"I'm not going to let this go, Sam. I have to find a way." He stood and in the process dumped Sam's feet on the ground. Sam wanted to groan in frustration.

The older man's expression was determined and even though he had insisted again that he wouldn't resent Sam for declining to help, the mood in the hut worsened considerably over the next few days. Dean spent all his time pouring over books he knew by heart in hopes to find a solution, ignoring Sam completely.

When Bela came by after six days and Dean had nothing to show for all his research, she yelled and pleaded, going so far as to take a swing at Dean in her despair.

Sam had never seen the other man so broken-hearted. However much Sam didn't want to be involved with this, he realized that he already was. It hurt his feelings to be faced with a person Dean so obviously adored, but he wasn't able to stand idly by any longer. He had to help if only to see Dean happy again.

Just as soon as he had decided, Dean called for him. He followed the hopeful voice up the stairs and found the older man sitting in his bed, an unfamiliar book in his lap. “Bela got me a few new books and I found a ritual that might work. It should summon the demon holding her contract.”

Answering Sam's panic he raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Don't worry, I took every precaution and I won't summon it here. I just wanted to tell you to keep the doors closed and stay inside the house. The bloodstones will protect you.”

\--oo--

Of course, he followed Dean into the night and watched the other man prepare the summoning ritual, drawing a devil's trap onto the forest floor with animal blood.

The man appearing in the middle of the bloody pentagram was an old friend. His superior smirk was familiar and his elegant fashion sense too, as well as his posh accent.

“Dean, you could have just called. No reason for this...” Crowley gestured towards the trap.

Dean had until now hidden his surprise well, but Sam saw the strain. “I only want to renegotiate Bela's deal with you.”

"Yeah...no." The demon glanced around the forest with a disgusted expression. As he passed the point where Sam was hiding behind a tree he did a double take. Dean looked over his shoulder and then raised a questioning eyebrow, to which Crowley shrugged. Sam exhaled in relief. "You have nothing to trade." He said it like he was speaking to a slow child and Sam ground his molars on Dean's behalf.

"Look, kid, I always liked you." The demon winked and Dean rolled his eyes. "Normally, I would offer you a deal for her life, but as things stand, that's no option. Your soul belongs to another. So you will have to just deal with the fact, that she's dog chow soon. Anyhow, I don't like being reminded of my early career choices," He murmured: "Crossroads demon, what was I thinking?" before continuing: "So why don't you just let me out of here? I have actual things to do, souls to collect, demons to discipline."

When there was no answer forthcoming, Crowley nodded, before he bent his neck to look at the sky. Seconds later the first raindrop landed on Sam's nose. The devil's trap washed away, and the demon saluted, vanishing with a gleeful "See you later, boys."

Sam still pondered the conversation when the pale moonlight before him went completely dark. He looked up to find a very angry Dean standing in front of him. He yelled at Sam all the way back to the hut for being so reckless.

 

_July 24, 1885_

_On the night before Jess' Wedding, Sam left his bed in the guest wing of_ the Moore's _mansion because he couldn't sleep. The nightmares were too intense and the possibility that every bad dream might as well have been a vision instead robbed him of any rest he could have had. He slid into black cotton trousers and padded along the corridor's barefoot, trying to quiet his mind. Something lured him towards the salon on the second floor. In the moonlight, the deep blue and illuminating gold seemed oppressive, like an ocean ready to swallow him whole. It took him a few seconds to notice Charles sitting on the lounge. The soon-to-be groom enjoyed one last glass of whiskey before his wedding._

_He felt the Captain's eyes on his naked torso and he wanted to run because he knew exactly where this would lead. Instead, he smiled, and most of the time his smiles were shy and crooked, but that evening he was all confident allure._

_Charles followed him into the room where Jess' family kept all of their mounted animals on tables and in showcases. Sam had always felt that the room had a special atmosphere, the quiet hum of potential._

_"I always give them a name first," Sam whispered and Charles, his uniform jacket the color of barely coagulated blood, draw nearer. "A name has power."_

_Stroking over the soft wings of a hawk, he felt the caress of the feathers as they ran through his fingers like water. "I named him Ariel, the spirit in the Tempest. A creature of air and magic, bound in its power only by the folly of men."_

_Charles smirked, in the darkness, his mouth appeared wet like an open wound. "And do you always go for the predators?"_

_"Jessica recreated the cute and fluffy ones, bunnies, squirrels and the like." Sam gestured towards a white rabbit, right next to the hawk on the oak wood table. His voice crept through the darkness, smoke curling on a mirror. "But the one's with a taste for meat were always mine."_

_He would never speak like that, would never say something so lewd and yet he felt his lips shaping the syllables, carving them into the silence._

_For the second time that day, he held a man's face in his hands and pulled it in for a kiss. Charles mustache prickled on Sam's skin and he thought of how much he and Jess had in common now, how this finally belonged to him, too. The other man tugged Sam's pants down with decisive and none too gentle movements. He opened his fly, not patient enough to get the stiff, uniform dress pants all the way off while licking into Sam's mouth with a deep groan._

_The other was strong, buff in a way that only military men were, and he hoisted Sam onto the table without much trouble. As Sam leaned back, he saw Ariel's amber eyes watching overhead while his dick stiffened with every rough pinch of Charles' nails scraping over his chest. They rutted against each other without restraint, didn't bother with the preparation for a real fuck. All of that would take too long._ Time _they didn't want and didn't have._ Time _that would lead to thinking about this, and then someone would want to stop. And he didn't want it to stop._

 _Sam's skin was slick with sweat, his cock_ weeping _a steady flow of precome. In-between violent kisses their breathing had become labored, they gasped into each other's mouths, trading shivering moans. It was disgusting and truly abhorrent and yet it felt as good as nothing else ever had. For this feeling, Sam could risk everything. For this, he could walk away from god, and gladly so._

_His eyes caught movement, Jess was standing in the doorway, her frail form shuddering, either from the cold or the shock of their betrayal. Sam saw silent tears running down her horrified face, saw her heart break, and he felt relieved. She would stay with him and she would lead the same ordinary life as him. No great adventures in India, no perfect husband. Finally, Sam was the desirable one, Sam was the beautiful one with the bright future._

_Charles bit hard into Sam's right nipple and his back arched off the table. He came with a drawn out sigh while wondering if Jessica's tears would taste as sweet as they felt, as her retreating form vanished into the night's shadows like an apparition._

_The next day, Jess canceled her wedding. Sam lay in his bed, vomiting up what little liquid he'd managed to drink almost instantly, hoping and praying that the last night had been a dream. He relived every moment of it in pain, wondering how he could have done something so out of character, something so cruel to his best friend._

_When he came to apologize, Sir Nicolas shut the gate in Sam's face, his ever amused expression turning cold at the gravity of Sam's transgression. There would be no forgiveness for him here._

_Sam told himself that it was better this way, Jess would have never accepted his apology. At least this way he spared himself the heartbreak of her righteous accusations, even if his heart felt ripped to tatters already._

\--oo--

Despite Crowley's insistence, Dean didn't give up. They had solved one problem with a memory charm and a few curse bags. Bela's husband now believed that his wife was utterly revolting in appearance and which would hopefully lessen his desire to visit. And should he ever come to America, trying to interfere with his wife's business, he would find that her associates and contacts remained loyal to her only, caught in a delicate web of blackmailing and well-informed threats.

The only remaining problem was the hellhound and neither Dean nor Sam could find any way to get out of it. Bela got more distraught with every fruitless ritual they tried.

With each new day, the atmosphere in the hut became more oppressive. Bela visited more often and left empty handed each time. The self-assured woman became gaunter with each visit, her elegant dresses hanging like leaves on her too thin frame. She winced with every sound and her gaze flickered around the hut wandering from the door to the windows and the dark corners and then back to the door. Sam almost felt sorry for her. If it weren't for the fact that she spent more time than ever with Dean. They poured over books together arguing and agreeing in turns, always pressed side to side.

His jealousy became a living thing that grew bigger with each new instance of closeness between them, with each time Sam was ignored in favor Bela's demands. His mood was snappish most of the time and his words aimed to hurt. He disliked himself for it, but the pull fed on negative emotions and he had far too many as of late.

The last week before the contract was due Dean asked Bela to stay with them. It was more secure because of all the protection signs and the bloodstones. Sam was one blow up away from walking out, but due to some wonder, Dean left Bela his bed, while he took the couch, which left Sam with the floor. At least he slept next to Dean now. Sam tried to feed as much of his power into the bloodstones as he dared, the strain to maintain the barrier showed when even the smallest magical effort made Dean breath heavier.

During the last week, the only thing keeping Sam from knocking Dean out and fleeing with him was the knowledge that the other man would never forgive him for it. During the nights, when the hellhound howled and scratched at the stone pillars, and the tortured trees creaked while fighting the winds, Sam lay awake and hoped. Hoped that they would somehow survive this. He even hoped that Bela would die fast and that the hounds would leave after killing their target so that he and Dean could survive unscathed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one fought with me, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but it has porn, so it can't be that bad, right? Right.

The last day dawned with a dark red sun. Dean was sitting on the couch, groggy from another wakeful night, while Sam brought two cups of tea over from the fireplace. Neither of them had slept. Only Bela managed to find some much-needed rest as the sun started its slow ascent upon the foggy moors.

"Blood will be spilled today," Dean muttered.

"Let's hope not," Sam answered and handed Dean a cup. He wasn't the only one who felt the potential for violence in the air. "Dean, we can still leave." Sam pleaded.

"I'm not going to let Bela die. I owe her my life, and I intend to fight for hers." Despite his steely tone, Dean looked at him with soft eyes. Sam wanted him with an intensity that both scared and amazed him. For Dean, there was no limit, no moral or ethical or personal rule he wouldn’t break. "Just go, Sammy. You are young, you have a chance to get out of this."

"No," Sam answered before he even made the conscious decision to do so. He took a sip of peppermint tea to hide his frustration. Of course, he wouldn't go. Not while Dean was still here. "You won't get rid of me that easy."

"But..." Dean was winding up to start to one of his endless tirades, so Sam jumped in. There was no way to stop Dean when he was in the deep of an argument. He had argued people into leaving with three curses and four herb remedies when all they initially wanted was a tea for pain.

"I'm sure, Dean. You won't leave her and won't leave you. We might as well all fight together. As much as you can fight against hellhounds, anyway." Sam even resisted Deans pleading look, but it would have taken a stronger man than him to not hug him for one last time when they could both be dead by evening.

They had collected a great deal more info on the beasts over their weeks of research, but nothing that really helped them. The only person able to see the hellhounds were the demons that commanded them, as well as their intended victim, which made them hard to fight. There was nothing that could kill or even harm them, no ritual, no curse or spell. The only thing that was rumored to work was a demon blade and they had no idea where to even get such a thing. The only person to ever survive a hellhound attack had only done so because the demon had called the hound off in the last minute. And betting on Crowley's mercy to survive was a pretty foolish thing to do.

Goofer dust and salt could hold them off, but the dust wasn't as heavy as the salt crystals and every breeze of wind could erode a dust line. Devil's shoestring was another alternative, but all of these were temporary measures for a permanent problem. The hellhounds, once they had a victim's scent, would not give up until they had ripped that person's soul out of their body. And if Bela ever wanted to leave the hut, they would have to fight. There was no other solution.

They spent the rest of the morning huddled together on the couch with Sam's arm around Dean's shoulders and Dean's head rested on Sam's chest. It was warm and cozy, and just for a few moments, Sam was able to forget the danger in which they remained.

That was until the hound broke through the bloodstones. Sam felt as though someone had cut off one of his limbs. The pain was so intense, that for a moment; his vision blurred white. For weeks he had felt his and Dean's power pulse through the stones, protecting their home together. He had felt every visitor that crossed the pillars and every mouse that hurried past them on their search for food and rest. The awareness, the companionship was gone now, as was the warmth of Dean's magic and Sam felt weaker for it.

It had to be even worse for Dean because he had fainted the moment the hound breached the circle. Sam reclined Dean's lifeless form, so he lay flat on his back and immediately set another, smaller circle of Goofer dust around the couch. Seconds later, the beast was at the door, scratching and snarling, it's jaws snapping shut with a sound like bones breaking. The sound brought Bela running down the stairs in a panic.

When she spotted Deans unconscious body, she looked at Sam in terror, as though she actually believed that Sam was responsible for it. “What happened to him?” Her voice was barely above a whisper and Sam had to make an effort to even hear her over the constant barking of the hellhound.

He replied with barely concealed anger while setting another line with salt around the couch and reinforcing it with the only three twigs of Devil's Shoestring they had. “I'm guessing the barrier took too much strength to maintain. And instead of letting me help, he tried to force it to hold on his own and passed out from the strain. He'll wake up once his magic has replenished a bit.”

Bela nodded and took a deep, steadying breath, but her voice still shook as the hound crashed against the door over and over, rattling its hinges. "What do we do?"

“You could still give up and let it rip you apart.” Sam aimed for casual but his tone missed that by a mile. It came out way too serious and Bela frowned.

"Look, I know you hate me, but I have no one else. There is no one that would even help me against something so dangerous. I came to Dean because I knew he would take his debt seriously." There were tears in her eyes and she wiped them away with an impatient gesture. She looked like Dean in that instant. Broken and hurt but far too stubborn to let it show.

Sam sighed. His devotation to Dean was the only reason he was still here. But Bela was aware of that, she probably counted on it. "I will do what I can for you, but if it's your life or his, you know who I'll pick." She nodded and Sam went to fetch the two iron blades that were their only means of defense if it came to actual combat. Iron was about as helpful as wood against Hellhounds, but it wasn't like the hound would ignore him, just because Bela was the intended victim. It would try to defend itself if Sam came for it.

He gave one of the blades to Bela and her hand curled around it with a familiarity that spoke of practice. Sam approved. Maybe there was a chance for them. Maybe.

Then the door gave and they both flinched. Sam had a moment to feel surprised that he could see the hellhound too. There was probably more demon in him than he wished to admit. As the hellhound prowled along the half circle of salt and goofer dust they had sat around the door, Sam took the chance get a better look at it. The hound was the size of a wolf and the shape of a Doberman, topped off with glowing red eyes. Its whole body was enveloped by swirling shadows curling away from it and evaporation at a certain point, but always forming anew.

The beast was growling and barking, baring its teeth at the barrier but the circle held. Sam and Bela looked at each other with relief, thankful that luck seemed to be on their side for once.

“That won't do.” Crowley stepped over the broken door with an annoyed expression. He was again ridiculously overdressed for a stroll through the moor in a dark red, double-breasted waistcoat with long tails, knickerbockers in the same color and black boots. The hellhound lowered its head respectfully and Crowley stroked its fur with a fond expression before turning to Bela.

He shook his head in deep disappointment. “I should have never accepted your contract. I knew from the beginning that you were more trouble than you're worth.”

Bela snorted and raised her knife,"Tough luck" she spat at him. Her upper-class accent had turned into the kind of drawl that Sam had gotten used to on the streets. It was learned, but not internalized. She'd grown up poor and had adapted her appearance and accent to fit in.

"And you!" Crowley turned to Sam instead, raising his voice. "If I see you never again, it will be too soon. What the fuck is it with Winchesters? You are the like over excited puppies of disaster, appearing everywhere and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Sam shrugged, because fair enough. Also, he found that puppy analogy a bit much, considering that Crowley was the one with the actual hellhound. And what the fuck was a Winchester anyway?

"All of this could have been avoided if you would have just stayed out of my way." And with that, he clapped his hands once and a strong wind swept through the hut, taking all the salt and Goofer dust with it and piling it in the outer right corner of the room.

The hellhound jumped up and growled with renewed favor. Crowley smiled and gave it a gentle slap on the flank. "Sick 'em, boy." It turned to Bela first, talons leaving scratches in the wooden floorboards in its haste to get to her. Out of nowhere, Dean sprinted towards it, drawing a molten sign in the air with his fingers. The sign exploded and threw both Dean and the hound in opposing directions. The beast landed on its paws, apparently unharmed, except for the small whining sound it made, while Dean crashed into the south wall and crumpled onto the floor, unmoving.

Sam hastened over but Crowley lifted his stretched out fingers towards him in a "stay-put-gesture" and suddenly it was impossible for him to move. It was as though the air itself chained him. He could still talk, though, and so he rained abuse down on the demon for taking him out of the fight so early.

"Yeah, yeah, you're gonna burn my bones and tear my flesh off, nothing I've haven't heard before, boy." The demon drawled while Bela fought valiantly with the dog, keeping it at a distance with broad sweeps of her blade. "Look, I just want my soul and after that, I'm gonna leave you and your little sweetheart alone.”

Sam strained against his bonds, but Crowley's power held true. He renewed his struggle as Dean moaned and made attempts to stand. His stance was unsteady but after a glance at Sam, he still hurried to get to the woman and help her. To Sam's chagrin, he just threw himself at the hellhound this time and without a weapon no less. It was a brave move, but stupid, for he miscalculated because he couldn't see his target, and what should have been a choke hold, turned into an ineffective dive at it's back.

Fortunately, it still achieved his goal. The beast desisted from Bela and instead now crouched low before Dean's sitting form, it's long teeth bared in a snarl. Dean seemed not at all afraid, rather his eyes burned with unrelenting intensity and as the hellhound charged, he made no sound.

From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw Bela stealing away through the ruined door frame. She was satisfied with what little time to escape they would buy her in this doomed endeavor. A cold fury seized him. They were willing to fight for her and she would desert them just to save herself. Worse, she would desert Dean when he was the one that wanted to help her in the first place. The woman clearly was a cold blooded bitch, if he would ever see her again he'd be hard pressed not to end her worthless life.

A pained whimper brought him back to the present. Dean was on his back, desperately trying to push the snapping jaws of the hellhound away from his throat. For the moment he succeed, but its claws were carving bloody gashes into his chest, slicing through cloth and skin with equal ease.

Something in Sam broke at the sight of Dean's insides pulsing red. A glacial current thrilled through him and abruptly he yelled "Ye eni", his tone echoing with unwavering authority. It was familiar to him and yet not, like remnants of a dream he had long since forgotten. Miraculously the beast stopped its assault and reluctantly paced backward, the action accompanied by a puzzled whine.

The bonds holding him fell away and he repeated the words. Sam sensed the duality in his voice, some of it, he recognized as his own conviction, but the rest was undoubtedly other. The hellhound shambled towards him, sitting at his feet, tongue lolling and tail wagging. It wasn't dangerous anymore, it was a pet, harmless and entirely devoted to him. Sam released it with a gesture and the mutt dashed out the door, never even sparing a glance for its original owner.

When Sam turned to face the demon, Crowley raised his hands, palms out, placating. “You are daddy's favorite right now, I get it.” And as he vanished, Sam lost consciousness.

\--oo--

When he came to, Dean was leaning on the wall a few feet away. The long, bloody gashes on his chest were still sluggishly bleeding, the right side of his face a mess of bruises and scrapes, his eye nearly swollen shut, and yet he was still the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen. “Finally.” Dean's gentle smile betrayed his rough tone. “How about next time you do the channeling Lucifer thing before the hellhound actually mangles us?”

Sam got up with a fair bit of effort, his leg twitching with pain whenever he put any weight on it, but he still managed to limp towards Dean. The other never averted his gaze, though Sam must have looked like a newborn foal in his pursuit, awkward and in way over his head.

At least he reached Dean and stepped closer, sliding one hand into Deans hair and placing the other on his hip, confident enough that now there was nothing more to separate them. Sam spoke under his breath, words meant to be cutting and instead entirely fond: "How about you stop dangerous shit for people that aren't worth it.” Then his lips found Deans and finally, the world was right again.

Dean melted into the kiss, going lax against him and opening his mouth greedily. Everything he could take, Sam took. His tongue sliding against Dean's, mewling at the taste and the slick wetness of it. Dean hooked his leg behind Sam's and pulled him closer, but with Sam's fucked up calf, it only made him lose balance and he tumbled against Dean instead.

Both of them made pained noises and Dean huffed a small laugh. “Trust you to get all horny when there's blood everywhere.”

Not dignifying that with an answer, Sam licked into Dean's mouth again, to shut him up and because he wanted to. But his leg was starting to really twitch with the effort of keeping him upright, so he pulled Dean towards the couch.

Sam sat down first, sighing involuntarily as the pain in his leg finally lessened. Dean was still standing, his expression concerned, hands hanging at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. "We could wait if it hurts too bad?"

"Get the fuck down here," Sam growled, because yeah, it hurt, but it wasn't the worst he'd had. Also, he wasn't gonna pass on anything Dean had so offer, so his leg would just have to deal.

A wicked smirk was his answer and Sam wondered how he still managed to do that with all the bruises, but then Dean straddled his lap, knees pressing against Sam's thighs on each side and he forgot to think. Because Dean was right there and Sam grabbed his ass with more force than necessary, pulling him closer and shoving his hips upward in the same motion.

Dean gasped and Sam tilted his head upwards, capturing his mouth again. This time Dean was the aggressive one. He forced his tongue into Sam's mouth gliding over his teeth, tasting every inch of him until Sam felt like he was going to suffocate, but still unwilling to stop. Grinding down onto his lap and writhing in search of more contact, Dean whined his frustration into Sam's mouth. They both weren't getting enough friction through the cloth of their trousers.

Because Dean seemed to be unwilling to do anything about it, except for shoving against him with more agitation, Sam loosened the string that held his pants together, and pulled the rough wool down, until Dean's cock finally sprang free. Sam reached for it blindly, desperately, and when his fingers finally embraced the hot skin, Dean tore free from the kiss and his head slumped back with a drawn out moan.

Dean's dick was gorgeous, surrounded by dark blond curls it was smaller than his own but thicker, slightly curved to the right and dusty pink. A drop of precome glistened at the top and Sam ran his thumb over the moisture, feeling it's slick glide as he massaged it into the skin. Dean made these blissed out little whines every time Sam stroked up or down. It was really hard to concentrate on keeping the movement firm and steady when Dean's neck was this perfect, pale curve, right in front of his lips.

He really wanted to suck on Dean's skin, leave a mark, so everyone would know who Dean had been with, would know that Dean was his. Instead, he bit down, right over Dean's clavicle, a few inches higher than where the claw marks started. Dean's body convulsed, and Sam felt his dick jerk hard, pulsing out warm liquid all over his fingers. His teeth locked and for a few seconds, he just followed the sadistic little whisper in his head that told him to bite harder, to just dig his teeth into the soft skin until he felt satisfied.

Finally, his jaw released the abused skin and Dean fell forward, head resting on Sam's shoulder. It was obvious that he was exhausted, but Sams pity was limited, considering that he still hadn't finished. He couldn't help the little wiggle he did, to bring Dean's stomach closer, to at least have something to rub against. Dean, however, got up. His stance was a little bit wobbly and for a horrifying second, Sam believed that he would just leave him like this. With his hard on, sitting pants down on a sofa, in a ruined room with no front door.

Luckily, not even Dean was quite that sadistic, and he picked a blanket off of the couch and placed it on the floor. He knelt down in front of Sam, head slightly tilted and a challenging smirk that was the most alluring thing Sam had ever seen on his lips. Sam was painfully hard and his dick twitched in anticipation as Dean pulled his pants down so they pooled around his ankles. Looking as his leg Dean shook his head. "That'll need stitches."

“Later, Dean.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but the strain was pretty evident in his tone.

Flashing his brightest smile, it was pretty obvious that Dean loved to torture him, but he at least put his hands on Sam. Dean's touches where light and teasing, nearly driving Sam insane with need. There was never enough contact and Sam had to hold on to his frayed self-control to keep from begging. Especially because Dean looked at him like he wanted to devour him whole.

However, every man had a breaking point and Sam's was reached when Dean started to lick his lips while staring at his cock, little innocent flicks of his tongue like he wasn't even aware he was doing it.

“Oh my god. Please Dean, will you please just suck my dick.” The words were wrapped up in a needy whine, but Sam was way beyond caring at this point.

Dean triumphant expression would have made him roll his eyes, but he really didn't have the strength left. “Well, Sammy, I thought you'd never ask.”

And finally, finally, Dean's lips wrapped around the tip with a firm pressure. It was almost too much to watch Dean slowly lower himself inch by inch, to feel the burning hot wetness of his mouth. Then Dean's tongue pressed against him, and when Sam's crown slipped over the soft ridges on his palate it tore a hoarse cry out of him.

It wasn't the most technically proficient blowjob he'd ever gotten, but the view and Dean's plain enjoyment made up for that. He experimented with depth and pressure, tongue movement and suction, and kept up all the things that made Sam go absolutely crazy.

Sam didn't notice his orgasm approaching, it was only once he was spurting down Dean's throat that he realized he'd come, and of course it was too late by then. The other man pulled off, coughing and spitting, all the while gurgling insults that were obvious in their meaning but unintelligible in their pronunciation. Sam couldn't care less. His release had made him pliant and happy, molded fully to the backrest of the couch, whereas Dean wiped his mouth harshly on the sleeve of his tunic, glaring daggers at him.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason for the non-con warning. Feel free to skip it, if you don't want to read it.

A few days later, Dean fainted. He woke up when Sam had placed him in bed, looking pale, dark circles around his eyes. “It was gonna happen, you saw it.”

Of course, Sam had seen it, right on his third day with Dean. He knew that this would be the beginning of the end. He had tried to ignore it, tried to wish it away, but his visions stayed true, they always did. 

“I'm on borrowed time anyway. I should have perished with my family. My brother was my first responsibility and I failed him.” Dean closed his eyes as though he was too weak to keep them open.

"When was this?" Sam asked, desperate to keep Dean talking. The other man was stubborn in regards to his brother. At times he would ramble on and on about him and at others, he would refuse to talk at all for the next few days. Sam was also genuinely curious about Dean's timeline. His account of the reformation had been gripping and detailed enough to make Sam wonder. 

"In the winter of 1683. I still hear his screams sometimes, still feel the heat of the fire on my back and the cold of the snow underneath my feet," his words were rough with sorrow but Sam's attention was focused on the date alone. 

"That... that was two hundred years ago Dean, " a tremor shook through his voice. Even when he had played with the thought he had never given it any serious consideration. Could it really be true? To have such long a life and carry all this pain alone for centuries. Sam's rational mind struggled with the reality his heart had long since accepted. 

Dean opened his eyes and looked at him with sad kindness. "Witches are often cursed with an unnaturally long life." His hand found Sam's and grasped it for support. His skin was as cold as though the November snow still fell around him. "I should have gone back in and fetched him, but I was too scared. Dad never outright said it, but I knew that he felt like it was my fault. Maybe it was. I won't ever forgive myself for leaving him behind." 

Sam had never seen Dean cry, he looked so fragile, so young. So like Jess. Sam wiped the tears away and kissed his reddened cheeks softly. “I'm sure he already forgave you.”

Dean had given up, but Sam wasn't ready to part with him yet, he had so many questions still to ask. Regardless, Dean seemed to get weaker with every new day that passed.

\--oo--

Sam picked mushrooms in the woods and missed Dean's company immensely. He even missed the endless questions, debating if he should speak the names and properties of the plants for himself, but deciding against it. He wasn't quite that desperate.

The air smelled faintly of smoke when he happened upon a lone rider. Sam lowered his eyes and made way, better to avoid confrontation. And harder to spit in his face that way.

Neighing, the horse came to a halt in front of him and Sam looked up. The man had arrogant eyes, the kind that hinged entirely on the approval of his peers. Sam had met many men like this one, preaching about the wrongness of stealing while children starved next to them. Sam tasted iron on his tongue.

"You're with that witch, right? I've heard of you," the man said and dismounted his horse. "They  didn't tell me you were so pretty, though.”

Sam felt paralyzed while the man approached him with certain steps. He wanted to go back to Dean and prepare dinner. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was right now.

_ He stands in front of the boy, taller than him by only ten inches, but to him, it must feel like an insurmountable distance. "You are the son a farmer, and I'm the scion of the mayor, who would believe your word over mine?" The boy cries, quietly, the tears leak out of his eyes and he tries his best to stay quiet, so his parents won't come into the room and see him like this. His clothes are ripped and his body blotched with bloody _ _bite marks_ _ and bruises. He looks taken, owned and his hopelessness is as seductive as his innocence. _

Suddenly, the man had both of his hands wrapped around Sam's neck. "You are on my land now," he growled. "Which makes you a poacher. I could have you branded." The man was breathing heavy, right into Sam's face. He was stroking over Sam's lips with his thumb and Sam swallowed down bile at the unwanted touch. 

He could have defended himself easily, he was bigger and the man seemed like a person who exercised for fun and not necessity. But he wore an expensive looking velvet coat and together with Sam's vision that seemed like enough evidence to convince him that he was dealing with Ballentree's mayor. Dean had described him as harmless, all bark and no bite when they had spoken about him. 

In villages like this, witches were in constant danger of persecution, one wrong word to the wrong person could cost them their home and lives. So he resolved to let it happen. It wasn't worth the fight, wasn't worth the danger it would put both of them in.

He held still as the mayor turned him around, one hand clasped over Sam's mouth and the other opening the knot that held his trousers in place. They pooled at his feet and Sam felt the cold air on his thighs.

“I will make you scream.” The man hit his naked ass with the flat of his hand and Sam gritted his teeth, the contact more shocking than truly painful.

"The witch fuck you like this? I hope you at least use his damned cocksucker lips," the mayor groaned, lips moving against Sam's neck and forced three fingers into his mouth. He pressed the digits down against Sam's tongue, skin salty and entirely too soft to pretend it was Dean's instead. Sam felt the other's hard-on through the clothes, as close as it rested against him. "I dreamt about these lips sometimes. He would look so good choking on my dick, these fucking green eyes looking up at me, spit running down..." 

It wasn't a conscious decision. He couldn't even explain how it had happened afterwards, but he bit down as hard as he could. The flesh gave easily as his canines ripped into it. Screaming, the mayor tore his ruined fingers away, tumbling a few steps back. Sam turned to him and grinned, the greasy crimson still clinging to his teeth. 

The other man looked at him in betrayal and disbelief, as though it was truly unimaginable for him that someone dared to resist him. 

“If you want to keep your precious dick, I would recommend never going anywhere near Dean's lips with it.” Sam spit the man's blood back at him, pulled his pants back up with as much aplomb as he could muster and walked away.

 

_August 7, 1885_

_Sam fell ill, and where Jess had always been with him, she was now absent. Most of the time he wasn't aware of anything, a prisoner in his own head. He heard only the whispering of the voices, felt only the maelstrom of the pull inside of him. He was lucid for short periods of time, heard the doctors murmur about insanity, heard himself screaming, ranting, raving, hateful words that weren't his own. Sam struggled against the grip of his parents and the nurses, he tasted vomit and blood and he felt a thousand fingernails scratching at his skin, leaving long wet trails in their wake._

_The last thing Sam remembered was Mrs. Wesson telling him that Jess had gone away and that they saw no other way than to admit him to a mental hospital. It was the last he ever heard of Jessica. He hoped with all his heart that she would find happiness. He felt it strangely fitting that in destroying his deepest friendship, he had also destroyed himself._

_The doctor, Christopher Banning, diagnosed him with hysteria of the psycho-sexual nature._

_Two minutes later, Dr. Banning was a nervous wreck, which was very understandable, from what Sam remembered he had described torture methods in graphic detail and then switched to another language entirely and tried to strangle him. It was all very dramatic he supposed if only he could call forth any emotion at all._

_The constant ice water baths felt like they were freezing his brain, thoughts felt exerting and stretched too long to bother with._

_Then came the narcotics and he forgot what thoughts even were._

_Life in the asylum followed one simple rule. Treat the crazies as bad as possible, and they will struggle to get sane as fast as possible._

_He was cleaned once a week with cold water from a hose, shackled to a tilted wall. He slept wrapped in a straitjacket and tied to the bed with broad leather strips. His hair was shorn and his mouth gagged. They fed him dried bread about once every two days. At some days they would give him electric shocks, enough to make him vomit or piss himself._

_Sam never got better, whatever they tried. He was either violent or unresponsive. The words he spoke where a different language and no one else seemed to understand him. Sometimes he begged for help, or for Jessica or Peter to come and save him. Sometimes he confessed every sordid thing he had ever done, sometimes he told them of all the terrible things he would still do. His mouth wasn't his own any longer, but it was still preferable to the emotional numbness when he was alone in his body. There was no anger, or sadness, love or happiness, everything was cold and dark._

_At least when the other thing spoke through him he felt an echo of its feelings, even if it was mostly greedy satisfaction and a vicious need to hurt._

_A few months later Dr. Banning gave up and stuck a steel rod into Sam's brain, to at least make him docile enough to deal with._

_From then on he was a husk. A puppet with cut strings. He drifted, half alive, half dead, nowhere, really. Eyes unseeing, body unfeeling and mind unthinking._

 

He washed his face when he arrived at their home. Since when did he start to think about it as home anyway? The soup turned out alright if one considered that his only cooking knowledge came from watching Dean preparing meals. And he had to deal with the added difficulty of being permanently distracted because his mind seemed to think that watching Dean's hands was more worthwhile than learning how to cook. He had smaller hands than Sam, his fingers slimmer, more delicate. Everything he did seemed efficient and he had this smooth effortlessness to his movements. Like he had repeated every step a thousand times already.

Sam sighed and threw some more parsley into the broth before bringing Dean a bowl. Dean sat up with a grimace, but he ate a few spoons of stew without complaint, before setting the dish aside. 

“That's actually edible. Good job, Sammy.” The purple bruises under his eyes didn't diminish his charm when he smiled. It was still painful to look at.

"Better remember that, for when I tell you what I did." Dean's expression turned curious, eyes glowing in that particular way that showed real interest. 

“I bit into the mayor's fingers,” Sam spoke, waiting for the laughter. When it didn't come he followed with, “then I spit in his face.”

The expected laughter never came, instead, Dean snarled and grabbed his wrist painfully tight. "What did he do to you?" 

Sam grimaced and Dean softened his grip, but still held onto him. His eyes had lost none of their intensity as they bore into Sam's. “Nothing really, I interrupted him with the biting.”

He didn't tell Dean that he had spent an hour in the freezing river and he still didn't feel clean. Or that he hadn't eaten because the urge to vomit was so strong that he gagged on air. Or that he still tasted the saltiness of the man's fingers in his mouth, still felt the nauseating touches on his skin.

It would only lead to Dean doing something stupid for him. They were in enough trouble already. ”I'm more worried about the possibility that he will come back for revenge. He has a lot of influence over the villagers, I don't want him to attack us, but I just panicked, reacted without thinking.”

Dean pulled Sam's arm towards himself so that Sam was laying next to him on the bed. The straw poked through the weak fabric of the mattress, and Sam shifted closer to the warm body next to him. The older man spread the woolen blankets over them both. “Stop apologizing, I would have killed him if I had been there.” Dean stroked softly though Sam's wavy hair and Sam tried not to purr. He really tried. ” Don't worry about it.”

They stayed like that until they fell asleep, Dean's fingers tangled in Sam's hair and Sam's hand curled on Dean's hip.

\--oo--

“You must eat.” Sam tried to force a spoon of the chicken broth into Dean's unwilling mouth.

The other man waved it away. “I must do nothing but die.” Sam put the dish aside with a long-suffering sigh, accepting defeat for now, though he would try again later. He had bought a chicken in the village in hopes of seducing Dean to eat at least a small portion of the nourishing broth, but he refused as he did most days. The unnatural glow in his eyes was getting weaker by the day as if extinguished by the dark circles beneath them. His body was too frail to leave the bed or help any of the villagers that came. Not that there were many of those anymore. They told of a personal grudge the mayor seemed to hold against witches and Sam hung his head in shame. If he had only let the disgusting bastard do as he wanted... but there was no use crying over it now. 

“Have you thought about what happens when I'm gone?” Dean drew a weak breath. “Will you go and search for that friend of yours or will you stay here and continue my work?”

“I've not decided.” In truth, Sam couldn't bring himself to even think about the possibility of Dean succumbing to the illness.

The other man nodded easily, as though he hadn't expected an answer anyway. "Bring me the big book with the glyph on the side." 

Sam turned to the shelf and found the largest of the volumes placed there. It was even more heavy than it's size justified and bound in a dark red leather embellished with gold accents at its spine. He nearly dropped it at the warm pulse it sent through his fingertips, but finally placed in in Dean's waiting hands.

“Of all the texts, of all the spells, this is the most cursed.” Dean's ashen lips moved sluggishly.

“What is it?”

"The poetry of death. The day comes, when my little snake is crushed and beaten and when his god deserts him completely, only then does he open it. And on that day he will turn his back to all that's good and right and walk in the shadows forever," Dean's voice was quiet, but steeled by the certainty of the vision. Sam knew that tone well. 

Their eyes locked and despite the ancient sorrow tarnishing their glow, those green orbs were still the most precious, the most beautiful thing about Dean. Sam was captured by them, by the depths of Dean's emotion, by the shine of his spirit.

The frantic scream of an animal made them both flinch, tortured sounds amplified by the vast nothingness of the moors.

"They become trapped," Dean sighed. "They struggle and sink deeper with each panicked movement. One false step is all it takes." 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I have two jobs now and that kind of makes for no free time. I'm posting the last three chapters now, together, because hell knows when I'll have time again.

As was the case with most desperate people, Sam resolved to do something foolish. He couldn't let Dean die before he had done everything in his power to save him. And there were methods of doing so that didn't mean he had to succumb to Lucifer. Other demons had more than enough magic to hold off death for a time. 

Sam packed a small bag and snuck off, just as the night slowly crept over the trees, shrouding the surrounding forest in darkness. He had left Dean sleeping with a calming tea and slowly followed the dim moonlight away from the city, towards the meadows. Finally, he reached the crossroad and though the paths crossing were little more than dirt roads, they would work just fine for his purposes. Luckily he'd brought candles and soon the flattened earth around him was aglow. Soft light flickering in the breeze, painting shadows within the shrubbery. 

He sat down, digging a small hole in the middle of the crossing and lowering a pouch into it. It's contents were graveyard dirt, the thighbone of a black cat and a piece of paper on which he'd written his name. Sam covered the hole back up with loose earth, remembering with some shame how he'd thought Bela foolish for striking a deal. As soon as he rose, a woman stood on the road, seemingly having appeared out of thin air. She was gorgeous in an unreal sense, her black hair straight with a blue shimmer and her olive skin glowing from within. 

"Sam," she said. Nothing else, just the amused twinkling of her blood red eyes. 

"I want to make a deal." There was no use in sugar coating it. Sam was ready to give his soul in trade for Dean's survival. However long a grace period he would get in exchange was enough for him, his only requirement an extension on his time with Dean. 

"Crowley told us that you would come" She bit her lower lip and twisted the maroon silk of her short dress between her fingers, in the dim light it looked like her hands were coated in blood. "He also told us not to make a deal with you unless we want to wear our innards on the outside permanently. Lucifer will give you the strength you need to save Dean." 

Sam should have suspected that and yet, somehow it came as a surprise. Of course, Lucifer would make sure that this easy way out was closed off for him, he would want Sam as desperate as he could get him. 

"However," the demon stretched the word for emphasis and Sam perked up. "I could never resist a good romance, and yours is truly one for the ages." She smiled, genuinely happy, and for that moment she seemed almost human, despite the color of her eyes. 

"But there is the small matter of payment," she paused and continued only after Sam looked at her questioningly. "Your soul isn't yours any longer." The demon said, as though that was the most elemental of principles and Sam should have really been familiar with it. 

"But" she mused, "we could trade for a favor." Her elegant fingers smoothed down her hair with a thoughtful tilt of her plump lips. "Surely you are a powerful ally to have." 

Sam doubted that statement purely based on his skill. He was a moderately skilled witch, sure, but without Lucifers help he would have no doubt lost to Crowley. Dean could probably go toe-to-toe with a mediocre demon and come out on top, but he had two centuries (it was still weird to think about that) of experience and a wealth of knowledge, that Sam with his twenty-four years simply didn't. 

The demon probably counted on Sam giving in at some point, demanding the debt be repaid only once he shared Lucifer’s might. He had no idea why she thought that the devil would even honor an agreement that had been made against his explicit wishes when he would be the one controlling Sam by then. 

"I'll give you one year to him." She placed both palms on her hips clearly expecting him to argue. It would be naive to make this deal, Sam knew that. Everyone, even Dean had told him that he would eventually, inevitably, give in. This deal would only give him a temporary reprieve, one year of freedom from his responsibilities, one more year to get to know Dean. 

"When the year has passed, he will die. But resurrecting someone isn't at all hard with Lucifer's Mojo, so you'll be fine." The demon curled her slim fingers in a sensual come-hither and Sam followed, his steps heavy, but resolute. He'd have to kiss her, to strike the deal. To make it binding. 

When he stood in front of her, he noticed that she was exactly as tall as him. Her eyes seemed to swallow the light around them, it grew darker, the closer he leaned in. Sam's mouth was inches from hers and as she whispered, he felt the warm moisture of her breath waft against his face. "Crowley said I shouldn't tell you, but since I'm already disobeying as it is..." she gave an amused chuckle. 

The sparse light around them vanished completely, leaving Sam in opaque darkness. At the same time, a warm spray of liquid settled on his features. Was it raining? He panicked and tried to lean forward to kiss her, but his lips never arrived on her's. This wasn't his idea of a joke, but demons were hardly known for having an appropriate or even reasonable sense of humor. She had probably never intended to make a deal with him in the first place. 

Then the light returned, and even though it was just the candles flickering back on, he was blinded by it. Blinking compulsively, he tried to adjust his eyes, and slowly his vision returned. Looking down he realized that he was sprinkled with red. In fact, his whole body was covered in a fine mist of blood that soaked through his clothes and made them stick to his skin. Crowley stood a few feet away, human eyes shifting to red with a blink.

The demon smiled slightly ruefully and flicked a speck of viscera off his sapphire blue waistcoat. “Poor Mauve, she never knew when to shut up.”

Sam wiped his face with the corner of his shirt, but it still felt tacky. “Did you just explode a demon in my face?” he asked and was proud to note that his tone was perfectly even.

"No, Sam I wouldn't do that," Crowley said, looking around the crossing as though he was bored. "I just exploded a meat suit in your face. The demon is perfectly fine, she just needs to find a new vessel. Gives her time to think about the value of silence." 

He felt sorry for the human Crowley had killed so thoughtlessly, but the truth of the matter was, that demons with stable "jobs" often stayed in the same vessel for quite some time. The possessed body didn't age, but the rest of the world did. And during a long career a demon could rack up many injuries, so chances were, without the demon's spirit, the body would have failed anyway. 

Crowley motioned to sit down and inexplicably there was an old fashioned armchair, the padding thick and decorated with stylized red roses, right beneath him, accompanied by a mahogany side table and a crystal tumbler filled with an amber liquid. Sam guessed that it was whiskey. It would be nice to have a chair too, Sam had been standing on the crossing for quite some time, but he wasn't going to ask Crowley for any favors. 

Sipping from the glass, Crowley cleared his throat and spoke, "The big bad doesn't want me to tell you this, says it could be traumatic, (Sam had a hysterical laughing fit on the inside. Lucifer was worried about traumatizing him? Everything he had ever done to Sam was a fucking trauma and now suddenly it was too much for him to handle?) but it might just up the stakes." He paused deliberately, slowly exhaling and taking another sip before continuing, "Dean is your brother." 

His first reaction was immediate and all-consuming panic. There wasn't enough space for Sam to breathe, he gasped for air, over and over again and yet none of the oxygen made it anywhere near his brain. His thoughts were sluggish and lightning fast in turns. It couldn't be true. No, not even the numbers added up. This was just a demon doing what they did best, lying and deceiving. 

"Bullshit" Sam gasped. "He's a few centuries too old for that." 

"Good point." Crowley's smile made the hairs at the base of Sam's neck rise. "Normally you would be right, but when it comes to prophecies and true vessels, everything is a little more complicated. But I see that you need some more convincing " 

The demon finally conjured a chair for him, this one far more practical than his own. No padding, just plain plywood. Demons were vengeful little bastards. However, at this point, Sam was too agitated to accept the offer.

Let me tell you a story," Crowley slumped back into the cushions with a sigh. He took another sip of the whiskey and smacked his lips. "In 1679 a woman named Mary Cambell fell in love with John Winchester, a simple carpenter." Crowley chuckled and propped his feet up on a stool that hadn't been there before. "You couldn't make this shit up. Soon, she gave birth to a son she named Dean. He was a representation of all that is right and faithful, and therefore the archangel Michael's vessel for a war he would have to fight with his brother, Lucifer. Consequently, her second son was destined to become the Antichrist, and Lucifer's vessel for the apocalypse." 

Sam didn't know how much of that he could believe but considering his past experiences, however unlikely it seemed, it wasn't impossible. 

"This was foretold by Deanna Campbell, who was Mary's mother and a powerful seer. It's her that you inherited your visions from." Crowley continued, "Naturally, Deanna brought her knowledge to her daughter, who, at this point, was still pregnant with her second child, Samuel. Both heaven and hell were aware of Mary's importance and therefore both were present and listened as well. Soon after, the archangel Michael appeared before Mary, demanding the life of her second son, to avoid all the bloodshed that an actual war would bring. 

The demon stopped for a moment and looked at Sam questioningly. "With me so far?" Sam nodded and sat down on the dodgy chair. He had wondered who his real parents might be and he wanted to memorize every detail of Crowley's words, but all he could do was to take it all in, hoping that he could, at some point, make sense of it. Not to mention that he still struggled with the possibility that all of this happened two hundred years ago. He remembered his childhood in the orphanage and there weren't any strange gaps in-between his recollection. Sure, the psych ward had stolen him a few months, but not enough to add up to two centuries. How in the world had he managed to lose so many years worth of memories? 

Crowley clearly had no pity for his mental struggle. "Mary defied the Angel. She believed that with enough love, Samuel could be just as good as Dean. To prove her point, Mary convinced her first son that Samuel was a miracle, that it was his responsibility to keep him on the right path and protect his little brother." 

That at least explained Dean's affection for the little boy he'd lost, their easy familiarity and his own slightly obsessive feelings. Maybe they had both sensed their past connection. But if this part added up, was the rest of the story also true? Was Dean really his brother?

It truly was a testament to his fucked up mental state that all he felt was a quiet kind of surrender. No disgust. No shame. Nothing had changed. His love for Dean wouldn't be influenced by this or any other revelation, he still wanted him any and every way he could get him.

Crowley nodded at something that didn't seem to exist outside of his own head, whatever it was, it brought a true smile to his lips. "When Dean held Sam for the first time, bloodied and wrinkly, right after birth, he didn't need to be convinced anymore. Dean was sure that his brother was the most precious, most perfect thing Dean would ever see. Yadda yadda yadda, devotion and eternal soulmatry, you know the stuff." His hands waved through the air carelessly, as to dispel the scene. Sam wanted him to elaborate, needed to hear everything, everything Dean had done and felt, but the moment had already passed. 

"Unfortunately, angels are vengeful creatures." Crowley shook his head in mock disbelief. "Just imagine, angels, being the biggest assholes in a story with Lucifer himself in it. They decided that Mary's sacrifice was indeed a small one for humanity and so they lured John and Dean away and set fire to the house with the mother and baby in it. Mary fought valiantly, but in the end, they both burned. Yet her sacrifice wasn't in vain." 

It was a strange feeling to get to know his true parents and them have them both taken away almost immediately. They were phantoms, whispy, unsubstantial, their motivations unclear and their deeds inexplicable to him. Had Mary really believed that he could somehow avoid his destiny? Had she really loved him enough to give her life for his? Why hadn't she made a deal with the demons? Surely they would have helped if Sam was as important as everyone kept insisting. Whatever stipulation they would have demanded would have been preferable to her dying, so why hadn't she done it? 

"Her dearest wish was that her boys would survive to see each other again. Her sacrifice gave Dean a very long life, and for you, Sam, it meant that whenever the angels got their wish and you were killed, on the date of your birthday, your spirit was reborn. Another child, born into another family, with no memories, so the angels could not find you. Only the purest traits of your character reincarnated into another  
person and you were free to find your brother anew." 

Crowley shrugged. "That's what we assume anyway. It took us a few decades and quite a few deaths and subsequent reincarnations on your part to be reasonably sure. inexplicable isn't your first time meeting Lucifer, but it is your first time finding Dean. And isn't it ironic that Mary's only wish is the thing that ultimately sealed your fate? You were never closer to giving in than you are now." 

The demon took one last look at him and then vanished with all his conjured furniture. Sam dropped ass first into the dust, but what had he expected? He was aware that he should doubt the demon's words, but the truth rang in his heart like a clear bell. Sad as it was to admit it, Sam's love for Jess had been but a pale shadow of what he felt for Dean now. Their connection was inexplicable and this theory, crazy though it might be, made the most sense.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a warning for a graphic abortion. Yeah. If you watched the episodes, you knew this was coming. You wouldn’t believe the kind of texts I went through for references. For anyone wondering, I am firmly pro choice but this might seem excessively negatively framed. That is because back then it was dangerous. Not that it necessarily isn't that now, but it got better. There is also another non con sex scene in here, because this is a horror series, after all.

The persistent rain of the next day brought an equally persistent knocking to their door. Sam had hammered a few planks together, creating a makeshift door that held the worst of the winds and water at bay, but it was neither secure nor by any means airtight. He obviously had not inherited any carpentry aptitude from his father. In fact, the door was wobbling precariously from the knocking alone and Sam opened it before it had the chance to collapse. He found a plump girl on the other side, her wheat colored hair hanging in steaks, eyes puffy and red and Sam honestly couldn't tell if the wetness on her cheeks was rain or tears. She was happy enough to follow him into the hut but seemed to have lost her courage once she stood in front of the always burning hearth. The girl sniffed every few seconds and her cloak seeped muddy puddles onto the floor. She looked like the most miserable person on earth and Sam felt for her, but he would have to clean the whole floor after she was gone, so his mood wasn't at it's best. 

"What do you want?" He asked, annoyed. Dean still refused to eat, and Sam was out of ideas. He could only wait and watch the days unfold before him, bringing him closer and closer to the day he dreaded. His visions showed him commanding an army of twisted, shadow clad monsters, killing innocents, spilling their blood easily. By far the most taxing were the ones where Dean was by his side, sometimes laughing, his hands dipped in red, reveling in their shared power, sometimes hungry, kneeling at Sam's side, lewd gestures and shameless seduction while Sam's officers tried to ignore his behavior. They knew well what happened if their eyes wandered. He wasn't sure if these visions were true ones, or if Lucifer had somehow managed to exert his influence once again, but it kept him on edge, his sleep short and fretful. 

The girl sniffled again and her shoulders drooped even lower like she tried to make herself disappear. "You aren't the witch." She said in a nagging tone, but her croaking voice ruined the effect completely.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Looks like I'm the only witch you are going to get, so you can take it or leave it."

She seemed to ponder that for a few seconds and Sam half hoped she would leave when she pulled a pocket watch out from under her cloak and handed it to Sam. It was an old thing, the glass was broken, the silver worn and scratched and the hands didn't move. 

It wasn't worth much, so Sam extended his hand once again, and she reluctantly added a button, two copper shillings and a few kernels of maize to the watch. She gazed at him pleadingly. 

Dean would have probably kicked her out for offering so little payment, but they had little enough people coming to them as it was, so Sam nodded and sat down at the table without offering her a seat. He wouldn't kick her out just for being poor, but he sure as hell wouldn't mind his manners for a farmers daughter. "What do you want?" He repeated.

"I have a ..." She gestured towards her stomach and Sam sighed. The wide dress disguised her silhouette, but there was a noticeable swell to her belly. He remembered Dean telling him about a blond girl that came regularly, to have the same procedure done every time. 

"You could have come earlier. I could have given you a tea to get rid of it," Sam spoke, resigned "but when the baby is so big already, I have to get it out another way." Sam had done the operation a few times, but never without Dean to supervise. The older man was in no position to even leave the bed, however, so Sam would have to make do with what he knew.

He fetched the oiled leather and put it on the floor for her to lie on. After fetching Deans tools from the cupboard he put them into a pot of boiling water, set the pot down on the floor and knelt down between her legs.

The girl was shivering, eyes overflowing with desperation and fear. Another loud sob startled him as he washed his hands in a bowl with hot water and soap.

"Why did you let the boy fuck you then?" He asked, knowing that she was too distressed to speak anyway. "You come here often enough to know that it makes you pregnant, so why are you still stupid enough to let him?" The girl continued to cry, but she stuttered something about love between her panicked breaths.

Clearly, she didn't deserve his anger, but Sam was so tired of this. She should know better. "Love is marriage and keeping the baby, raising it together and making sure that it survives." He said. "Love isn't a quick fuck behind the barn, and him running as soon as you show." Like he had any right to talk, after what he had done. But she was ruining her life for a selfish boy. Sam had been that that boy, exploiting her naivete, and abandoning her as soon as things got complicated. He had done that, and it irked him that she was so unwilling to fight for herself. 

"Fucking isn't love. Get that into your stupid head, and maybe you'll find a man worth your time." Hopefully, she would remember his words and think twice before she let herself be used again. The problem now was that he needed her calm and motionless, instead, she was trembling, half out of her mind with shame and guilt and fear, because she knew the pain that would follow. 

Sam contemplated anesthetizing her, but that would put an additional risk on her health and the abortion would be hard enough on its own. The pain numbing tea would have to be enough. Placing a hand on her cheek to ground her he began reciting the Ave Maria and after a few minutes she joined him, words more sobbed then spoken at first. Her voice gained strength with every repetition and she relaxed into the prayer, let herself be calmed by it. 

"God forgives all." he told her, and even though he saw the depth of desperation in her eyes, the light in them was evidence enough that she still believed it.

He cleaned his hands again and began the procedure, inserting a rubber catheter into her cervix to irritate the uterus. That would lead to early contractions, which would then hopefully result in a miscarriage. At least that was the science behind it. What he was actually doing was poking around in the insides of a girl with an instrument that was as easily wielded as a cooked noodle. He had no idea what he was doing. Dean had showed him where to press with his fingers from the outside to locate the catheter and direct it to the right position but through the skin, everything just felt squishy and soft. He was pretty sure he wouldn't even find her stomach this way, let alone her womb. 

That night, when he had cleaned everything up, he let her sleep on the sofa and he took the floor. He stayed with her through the cramps and the pain, the bleeding, the screaming, and crying. At dawn, she left the hut with more tea, as it would take a few weeks for her to be completely free of pain. She was freed from the public disapproval and financial liability of birthing an illegitimate child, and Sam had a pocket watch to sell for some food that Dean would hopefully actually eat. He hadn't done this for her, his thinking wasn't so warped that he could make himself believe in the goodness of his actions, either, but maybe he had made things a little better for her. And if not, maybe he had made them better for himself. 

 

_ January 9, 1886_

_One day he found Sir Nicolas in his bedroom, sitting at his desk like he belonged there. Hallucinations were nothing new, he had learned that the best way to deal with them was to do nothing at all. Ignored, they eventually went away. He instead focused on his own body, a thing he knew was real. He was dressed in a white nightshirt, his limbs littered with bruises and scrapes. His figure was gaunt and weak, arms bound to the iron headboard, as thin as they had been when he was still a child. Sam couldn't even remember the last time he was lucid enough to notice such things._

_Rationally, he knew that Jess father wasn't there. Sam hadn't seen the real Nick since the day that Sam couldn't bring himself to remember. But he seemed solid somehow, didn't have the airy silhouette of the delusions Sam was used to._

_He wore the same elegant suit he had worn that day, his face was just as boyishly handsome, a smirk curving his lips, blond hair falling into his pitch black eyes. The eyes were new._

_"Who are you?" Sam asked._

_The creature licked its lips, breaking the illusion of familiarity completely. "You know my name, you always knew it, Sammy."_

_Sam didn't like it when people called him that. The nickname stirred something in him, something special. It left his soul raw and his heart open."The Fallen One, Deceiver, Bringer of Light and Prince of Darkness." He hissed, voice shaky despite his anger as he wasn't used to speaking any longer. There was no one to talk to._

_"Since you are so very forthcoming, I shall give you a name of my own, Boy King." The creature was sitting in his bed now, without any movement Sam's eyes could have observed. "I've always wanted to meet you. It's so nice that you finally decided to let me in."_

_Sam struggled to sit up. "I haven't decided anything."_

_Lucifer smirked. "Oh, but you did. You sought me out. You let all of this happen." He stroked through Sam's shoulder length hair, tracing the scar the lobotomy had left him with. When did his hair grow back?_

_He remembered them shaving his head like it had been yesterday. He'd screamed and protested, they had to cuff him to a chair so he'd sit still. He felt every pass of the blunt scissors that torn his hair more then they'd cut it. Then the rasping sound of the blade as it slithered over his bare scalp. Back then it had felt as though his appearance was the only thing that still belonged to him. The other might have taken his mouth, his thoughts, his body, but it couldn't alter the shape of it. The hair had been his own, but that too had been taken._

_Violently yanking his hair, Lucifer brought him back to the present."Attention now, boy. You would have done anything to get rid of the emptiness, to be yourself again." He raised his arms with a self-satisfied expression, (as though the asshole expected him to applaud) and then lowered his head demurely (even though Sam had made very sure not to clap his hands). "Well, here you are, all of you, with a little something extra."_

_"Stay away," Sam whispered, jerking away from the hand that was slowly sliding down his chest._

_Lucifer pulled the nightshirt up, exposing Sam's cock and stomach but leaving his chest covered. "You want me here. If you didn't, I'd be gone. You know what we could be together. Raining fire and raising sea, death, destruction and unending torment. You were never one to resist temptation easily. You could have refused the Captain but you just had to be adored. Didn't you?"_

_Sam felt fingers trailing over his cock, massaging his balls, squeezing his crown, spreading pearly precome all over. Heat slammed into his stomach sudden and irresistible. It had been so long since he had felt arousal since he had felt anything. He savored every nuance, every touch, every spark of warmth._

_When he was fully hard, the Devil tugged his hand away with a mean grin. Bereft of any stimulation Sam lay there, shivering. His dick resting on his stomach, twitching pathetically._

_He couldn't control the helpless whimpers and moans tumbling from his lips, or the desperate little thrusts of his hips. The Devil looked straight at him, challenging and Sam knew what he had to do._

_"I need it," he begged, "please."_

_Finally, Lucifer smiled and bowed, taking Sam's cock into his mouth. He felt a forked tongue licking at the swollen vein on the underside and then he was swallowed down into the velvety slick of his throat. Lucifer made no move to stop him from slamming upward into the tight heat. There was no choking, no saliva running down his chin, no labored breaths. Just his black eyes gazing at Sam daring him to get lost in them._

_He heard the door open and felt a strong sense of Deja-vu. Mrs. Wessons face shortly flickered, turning into Jess' doll like visage. The pain still etched into it, as all consuming as it had been on that day._

_Sam saw himself through his adoptive mother's eyes. His nightshirt barely covering his concave stomach, ribs, and hipbones protruding like they were trying to escape the confinement of his skin. The rest of him naked, hands at the headboard, gripping so tight that his knuckles turned colorless. Muscles violently straining, mindlessly fucking up into an invisible mouth. He was growling, his pupils gone, eyes completely white and sweat running down his temples._

_Nothing human was left in him at that moment, he wasn't himself anymore. The Devil had taken him, and Sam was all but gone. No regret shot through him, no guilt. It was easier now, it was darker but easier._

_There was but a moment of shock in Mrs. Wesson's gaze and then she fell over. Eyes still wide and mouth open, strings of saliva dripping onto the carpet._

_Sam didn't know in the aftermath if she had really died from shock or if this was just another morbid present from Lucifer, but her death was his fault in both cases. His adoptive father had little love left for him, and Sam didn't resent him for it. He packed a suitcase with clothes and what little money he had saved and went to the city in search of answers._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not satisfied with this story. But I tried and for now, I can't make it better than this. I hope that some of you still found some enjoyment in reading it.

The next evening came with howling winds. Sam had helped Dean onto the chair after he'd made it more comfortable with a few pillows. These days Dean was either indulgent towards his attentions, or he would shut down completely, refusing to let Sam help. It was always a fight with him. Today, at least, he sat down peacefully. He even let Sam drape a blanket over his knees, as the weather had turned freezing in the last few days. Still, Deans mood had been rotten lately and Sam pretended not to know the reason. "When will you leave?"

"After" Sam replied vaguely.

Dean coughed loudly. The coughing had gotten worse as well. "The people here need you, they need a cutwife. You aren't safe in New York. Here at least you know your enemy and he won't surprise you."

"I won't leave." He spoke gently, but surely. "Just accept that I will stay here for as long as you do." 

"Won't be for that much longer, anyway." Dean sank deeper into the chair and Sam tried not to let his irritation show. What was it with Dean and his careless disregard for his own life? It always seemed like he didn't value his life as he did everyone else's. Sam was so sick of it. Dean meant everything to him, and it was jarring to think that Dean would throw it all away, sacrifice himself for others in a heartbeat. 

The faint neighing of a horse drifted through the air and Sam and Dean traded a concerned look. Not many people in the village had horses and even less had the luxury to use them for transportation and not to tend the fields. 

Sam rushed to the window. The dirt road to their hut was alight with numerous glowing spots, and for a moment he thought of fireflies, even though he knew from his visions that the lights were torches. The villagers carried pitchforks and axes, and as they marched forward, Sam saw that their faces were marred with anger and hatred, teeth bared like rabid dogs. They were a pack, a single mind, the aggressive members edging the rest on until they were all ready to escalate at the slightest provocation. 

He had tried to convince Dean to flee, but the other man had declined as Sam knew he would. So he eased Dean to his feet and supported him with his strength. Dean straightened and let go of Sam's arm when they stepped through the door and into the night, nothing but his pride to support his reluctant steps.

The lynch mob surrounded the hut, people they knew, people they had helped. Sam swallowed bitter bile at their hypocrisy. The mayor was also present, though he was on horseback where most of the villagers had come by foot. 

The priest of the village, an old man with receding hairline, stepped forward and spoke: "As cited in Leviticus, a man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer, shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones, their blood shall be upon them."

Dean chuckled dryly and for a moment, he almost seemed like his old self, his voice certainly was as cocky as it had always been. "As Leviticus also cites: And the man that committeth adultery with another man's wife, even he that committeth adultery with his neighbor's wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death." He paused, as though for dramatic effect, but Sam heard his breath wheezing. "Which means that you and the baker's wife should be careful with these accusations."

The priest opened his mouth, outraged, but no words actually managed to leave his lips. The whispers in the crowd grew louder, some obviously took the silence as an admission of guilt. Sam thought that maybe this was their opening, but the mayor shushed the crowd with a sharp gesture. "We have resolved you to be guilty of witchcraft and to be in league with your master, the devil." The other villagers muttered their agreement, while a few individuals added their own grievances.

"You seduced my husband!" cried a woman with bright red hair, "He left me after he visited you." In truth, the man had come to them with the vague intention to get rid of his wife. One too many sermons had apparently turned her into a religious zealot. Her husband very much disliked that he was now only allowed to fuck her for procreation. They already had six kids. But in the end, he couldn't stomach the bloodshed. Dean had advised him to just leave her and begin anew in a different city. 

"You made the crops fail and you cursed my cow," the accusation came from a gaunt older farmer and was complete nonsense. Many of the people from the village paid for the witches services in food. A bad harvest affected everyone and there was no profit to be gained from it. 

"You killed my granny," yelled a boy and granted, that one was true. His sister had wanted the woman dead because the matriarch of the family was very old fashioned and had wanted to arrange her marriage to the cruel, but wealthy smiths apprentice.

 

"Burn the witch." The shout came from the plump blond girl, the one who Sam had helped only a few days ago, it was quickly picked up by the crowd and soon they were all screaming for blood. 

The boy who had asked Dean for cough medicine for his younger sibling threw a stone at them and it was like he had opened the floodgates. The villagers rushed forward, hitting everything in their reach, spitting at them and screaming for justice. Two grabbed Dean and dragged him to the tree, where they tied him to the gnarled branch with a rope around his neck. He balanced on the tips of his toes, face distorted with pain. It was clear that he needed all of his strength to keep himself from screaming, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing that they hurt him. 

Sam fought and screeched but he was restrained by three other villagers. He was kept there, numbly witnessing one of the farmers emptying a bucket of oil over Dean's head. Some people continued throwing stones at him and Dean's lip already oozed blood that mixed with the oil and ran down his chin.

The green eyes bore into him and Sam's cheeks were wet with helpless tears. In the corner of his vision, he noticed the mayor elegantly demounting his horse. The man sauntered over to Dean and wiped the blood off his lips with his thumb. The touch was rough, indenting Dean's lips and smearing a streak of crimson across his cheek. Dean tried to twist away but the small movement seemed to pain him even more. 

It renewed Sams struggle. One of the men let go of his arm and punched him in the stomach for his trouble, he barely felt the pain. But however much he writhed and cursed, their hold on him stayed secure. 

The mayor stepped away from Dean and joined the blond girl, offering her a burning torch, whispering into her ear. Sam felt true hopelessness, faced with a situation he could not change. There was nothing for him to do here. No way to help his brother, no way to influence any of the proceedings. Powerful spells needed time, curses too. He could do the same thing Dean had done with the hellhound, work something small with his own blood, but he'd have to bleed himself dry to incapacitate them, and even then it would likely not be enough to stop every single one of them.

Sam was so focused on the girl that he could pinpoint the exact moment when her resolution failed her. Their eyes met and her expression turned hostile, her pale mouth pinched in disgust. She gripped the wooden handle of the torch tightly. 

He loathed her then, that silly little girl, too stupid to make up her own mind, too cowardly to face reality. Burning witches did not negate the fact that she had sought help from them. It didn't eradicate her guilt. But this wasn't her fault. The mayor could have picked anyone else and chances where they would have followed his orders as well. Even if she had resisted, she was one of many and not strong enough to change anything. The others would have been willing in her place. 

The girl moved towards Dean, her steps hesitant, steadied in their purpose only by the flaming instrument in her hand, by the people around, urging her on. He knew what was coming. He had seen it in a thousand nightmares since that first vision.

When the fire met the oil it hissed like an angry cat. The flames devoured Dean hungrily, though his brother didn't scream even as the flames shrouded his body in light.

In that moment Sam realized that he couldn't, in fact, survive this. Dean was the one dying but Sam screamed like it was him burning. It just burst out of him this desperate, keening sound, that hurt so much the world went blurry on the edges, and yet it was nothing compared to the sheer agony of living without his brother. There was nothing for him here without Dean. No point in living. No point in fighting. 

It was time for him to act. He had relied on everyone else to solve his problems, Dean, Lucifer, even Crowley and it had landed him in this mess. There was no other choice now. The path ahead was clear and straightforward, something about that felt liberating.

"I give in," he whispered, the words raw and painful in his throat.

Everything stopped. 

A pulsing brightness stabbed through Sam's eyes, creating blind spots in his vision.

When he was able to see again, he found himself in the lobby of the Wesson's estate. In front of him an exact picture of the present. The crooked roof of the hut, the chanting villagers and Dean's flaming silhouette, everything was pictured in precise brush strokes. 

"Nice of you to finally join me." The voice was deep and pleasant and he turned to find Sir Nicolas sitting in a red velvet lounge chair to his right. He hadn't aged a day, his expression still seemed like it could dissolve into laughter at any point. Sam sat down in the chair next to him. He looked around, the high ceilings and windows, the cream colored tapestries, everything was exactly as he remembered.

He felt at home in a way. Comfortable. "I need you to save him." He said, marveling at the determination in his voice. Sam had never been so sure of anything. This was his way now and he would walk it with his head held high. "I will do everything you want, rule hell with you, lead your armies, burn the world to the ground if I have to. But I want Dean with me."

The Devil nodded benevolently at the burning figure in the center of the painting. "You are indeed allowed to have a consort as Boy King. Traditionally it would be a demon, but a strong witch such as him wouldn't be disadvantageous to your status." 

Sam wouldn't have cared if he had been forbidden from taking a consort, he would have found some other way to keep Dean in his reach. Yet he felt like he could breathe for the first time since the flames devoured his brother like they had his mother once upon a time. 

"He will fight you, though." the Devil added with a soft laugh. "Every step of the way."

Sam nodded, he counted on that. Submission without resistance was worthless. Especially with Dean, there would be a whole lot of pleasurable fighting to be had until he finally surrendered. 

"I also want Azazel to pay for what he did." He added. The demon had demonstrated arrogance bordering on stupidity in assuming that he could touch Dean without repercussions. Sam would find a way to remove the ugly pentagram from Dean's skin. His brother would bear no mark but Sam's own.

Maybe Dean would even help him to bring the meddling demon to heel. Sam had a feeling that his brother would be excellent at torturing if he used his keen insight into the human psyche. Revenge was a great incentive to overcome his squeamishness for suffering.

Lucifer's black eyes were blinking at him, strangely bird-like in their mercilessness. "You will have enough power to make Azazel regret everything he ever did. And a bit of healthy competition never hurt anyone." The Devil laughed and it sounded hollow. "Keeps the boys on their toes." 

He nodded absent-mindedly and spoke, "You'll do.", as though he was thinking of something else already. Regardless, his tone was approving and for a second Sam let himself feel pride at that.

As they both stood, Sir Nicolas' shell melted away like wax, and Sam caught a glance of impenetrable blackness behind the human vessel, millions of soulless, crazed red eyes, all of them open and forever watching. The void ripped open, revealing lipless mouths with bloodied, canine teeth. Sam shrunk back. "You know what to do." The creature said and everything turned dark.

\--00--

Sam awoke with a start. It was morning, the watery sunlight barely enough to illuminate the room. Dean was in bed, still sleeping, his chest raising only a little with his light breaths. His hair was mussed and Sam stroked through it, smoothing the ashen strands back. The older man mumbled something unintelligible but he didn't wake.

The book was where it had always been. As Sam grasped it, he felt the same current he'd felt before. A connection of kindred minds. It felt right to hold it, the solid weight a welcome anchor for his straying thoughts. The warm leather like living skin, a hand holding his own.

He opened the volume and the paper whispered quietly as if excited to share its power. Tendrils of some last remaining part of purity drifted away. For a moment he felt the loss intensely, felt the dark space where previously had always been a light. Then the symbols on the pages curled and slithered into that empty void, and though that place wasn't as warm, wasn't as bright as before, the knowledge filled it up like water a cave. 

Sam stood and for a moment was surprised that nothing was different. It felt like the sky should have crashed down to earth and shattered into a thousand icy blue shards, to match how fundamentally changed Sam felt. He heard the wood creaking as it absorbed the damp air. He saw the warm shadow his brother's eyelashes painted onto his cheek and smelt the rotting odor that was the moor surrounding everything, clinging to his skin like a cloak. Everything was the same as it had always been.

It was too easy to find the right ingredients in Dean's well-stocked supplies. He could have summoned a small demon army if that had been his goal. As it was, he took five of the white candles, a silver bowl, burned some of the dried herbs and used the ash to draw the runes he needed on the wooden floorboards in front of the fireplace. He placed the candles and put the bowl in the middle of the pentagram. A few drops of his blood were enough to lure the demon to him.

He could have just called Crowley by name and the demon would have appeared by his side. No one could refuse him now. But really, where would be the fun in that? It was far better to summon him, just so he could feel the discomfort of being ripped out of his current dimension and thrown into this one. Crowley's pose was self-assured as he flickered into being, his head slightly crooked, appearing as though he was merely curious about the summons. The spectacle was only belied by his state of undress. He wasn't wearing more than knickers and bright green knee socks, and it was the hardest thing Sam ever had to do, not to laugh.

"I see you finally stopped dragging your heels." The forced relaxation in his stance wasn't convincing. Sam knew just how much effort it took for the demon to stand upright without jittering. He was above Crowley in the hierarchy now. The man before him might not be scared yet, but there was a certain apprehension in the way his shoulders drew tight.

They both knew that Crowley was trapped like a mouse in a cup. The mouse could pretend to take it all in good humor, that its little feet weren't trembling, that it could get out of the cup if it wanted, somehow, really, it had to be easy. But in the back of its little head, it just knew that it was fucked.

"So nice to meet you again, Sammy, my boy." Sam broke a few of his bones with the snip of a finger, just because he could. The only way to ever keep demons in line was to take drastic measures at even the slightest provocations. You gave them an inch and they would take the whole mile. There was nothing else to do in hell but to challenge the current power structure. If word got out that he was a pushover he'd find himself with a blade in his back before long.

Crowley betrayed nothing, no movement or emotion, only the tightening around his eyes was evidence that anything had happened at all.

"You know, the innocent human in here is screaming right now. He has a family, wife and two sons. Well, one son. Naturally, I had to show him that I was serious about him being on board with the whole takeover thing." The demon didn't seem too regretful about that.

Sam meanwhile had no idea why he was being told such bullshit. He didn't want to know, and if he did, he could have fucking seen it. The visions were instantaneous now, what he wanted to see, he saw. Naturally, the future could still change with the choices people made, clairvoyance was never foolproof, but he had the closest possible thing to it. Shrugging, he snapped his fingers a few more times.

Crowley laughed. It sounded like it always did with demons. Slightly wrong, like they had read a manual on how to laugh, maybe practiced in front of a mirror but never actually done it when they weren't alone. "If you could see yourself now, you would bemoan your humanity. Or, more accurately, Dean would. Cause you always were one screwed up little cupcake, weren't you?"

Dean's name captured his attention and he zeroed in on dark eyes that shone with mirth. His brother's name sounded revolting on someone else's lips, however small a piece of ownership it actually represented. Dean was Sam's and that included his body, his soul, his spirit and everything that made him. Everyone else would have to get used to not using his name because it fucking irritated Sam to no end that others even dared to speak of his beloved. Maybe he could somehow convince Dean to go by "unholy consort" or something. That would go over so well.  
He wanted to keep his brother in the deepest hole in the loneliest place. No one would ever get to touch him, or speak to him, or think of him ever again. No one would even know that he existed. It scared him, this obsessive thing that curled thorny claws around his heart, that felt so painful and so right at the same time. 

An involuntary growl escaped his braced teeth, and Crowley raised an eyebrow at his jealous display. "You two are the most desperately codependent people I have ever met. Dean with his fucking martyr complex and your inability to realize that there are more important things than your brother." The demon sighed, fluttering his lashes in an overly romantic fashion. "It's almost poetic in its destruction. You are like fires, feeding off each other, burning everything else."

Sam was already zoning out, mentally going over the list of all the other demons he could have summoned that would have done the job faster and with less talking. He came up with roughly zero better choices and sighed. Crowley was still monologuing at this point so Sam pondered on dinner. There was still some turkey meat left, maybe he could pair that with cooked potatoes, and carrots.

He crooked his neck and fractured Crowley's in one move. The demon instinctively tried to escape the excruciating pain by leaving the vessel behind and finding that he couldn't. Sam could dole out pain like it was his job now. He supposed it technically was. Condensing fifty years of hell in the tender care of their best and brightest into one single impulse was easy for him. But actually using it on Crowley would have fried his brain. Sam needed to be patient.

"I see that my insight is wasted on you." A slight hesitation in the words, a few breaths taken too harshly were the only indication of the intense hurt the demon had to still experience in the aftermath. He took pain well, Sam had to give him that. "How can I please you, oh mighty Antichrist?"

Sam nodded slowly, accepting the title, however mocking it was spoken. "Deal with the mayor. And turn the village into a sanctuary for all witches, seers and otherwise magically gifted beings." 

"Go with the utopian solution, why don't you. What about burning those narrow-minded fuckers to the ground?" Crowley was slowly rising in Sam's estimation, but it wasn't enough to tolerate that kind of snark from an underling. 

"Did I say you couldn't erase their pathetic little existences in the most painful way that your, admittedly limited, brain capacity can imagine?" One small gesture sent a jolt through the demon that dropped him to his knees. Sam was aiming for the feel of holy water for spinal fluid, and Crowley's bulging eyes and cramped posture certainly spoke of success. "No, I did not. Learn to listen."

Tipping his non-existent hat with trembling fingers, the demon threw him a resentful glance that wasn't all that impressive coming from a man kneeling half naked on the floor. Sam decided that he had enough of him and vanished the demon with a thought.

Sam returned to Dean's bed and sat by his brother's side. He hoped that Dean was amendable to the new state of things. There was no way that he'd be pleased to be sure, the best Sam could hope for was a stalemate for now.

Dean would challenge him, but he wasn't the pure heavenly vessel he'd been when they were both children. He was tainted by the blood magic, the curses and the symbols etched into his ribs. And Sam was a magnet for tainted.

If he whispered a name, its keeper would writhe and slither towards him. If he howled, werewolves would flock to him like sheep. If he gave an order, all manner of dark creatures would crawl out of their hiding spots to be his faithful servants.

Dean would struggle at first, too, and Sam was willing to make allowances for that. Spare a few lives. Guarantee the safety of a couple humans, or whoever else Dean was fond of. Stop a few demons from pillaging and raping the innocent. These were all rather minor allowances for him, but for Dean, it would turn an intolerable situation into a bearable one. His brother would get used to his new reality and Sam had all the time in the world to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first ever wincest thingy. It happened because I dreamed the scene in the forest where they pick flowers with Vanessa as Sam and Dean as the cutwife. If Twilight thought me anything, it's that sexually charged dreams make for stories with consent issues. 
> 
> Anyway, I started to write this in August of 2015, so I'm probably the slowest writer in existence. But this is finished, it only needs some minor editing. I will hopefully post twice a week.
> 
> If you find anything that you think I should add to the tags, please tell me. Title is from Placebo “I'll be yours”
> 
> I'm mrsuial at tumblr, if you want to squee at me about wincest.
> 
> Kudos are hugs for my soul and comments are food for my mind, both are appreciated.


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